A Star to Steer Her By
by KCS
Summary: Drabbles, ficlets, and miscellaneous meme fills, both missing scenes and original fic, that aren't long or polished enough to be stand-alones. Gen. Various characters, mainly Kirk-Spock-McCoy. New: Even sick as a dog, Jim Kirk is a very lucky man.
1. Knowing

**Title**: Knowing  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Summary/Warning**: Missing scene (and spoilers) from _The City on the Edge of Forever_.

* * *

"_I must know_ if she lives or dies," he'd demanded, disregarding the present impossibility to predict or even discover their – the world's – future, and had left the dingy room to stalk the streets until his head cleared.

He half-expected, upon returning in dusty twilight, a lecture on the foolishness of emotion and the harm it could cause (and not just to the timeline of history), but was unsurprised that his actions were not so much as questioned by his well-trained first officer.

He _was_ surprised to be awoken next morning by said first officer finally nodding off over nearly-repaired circuitry.


	2. Conspiracy

**Title**: Conspiracy  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy off-screen  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Warnings/Summary**: No particular missing scene in mind when I wrote this, but could with slight tweaking fit just prior to _Shore Leave_.

* * *

It wasn't that he'd fallen asleep while on duty that bothered him as much as it was the inference (judging from suppressed smiles and the three-hour gap in the ship's chronometer) that the bridge crew had purposely refrained from awaking him; under Vulcan orders no doubt, though he would never be able to prove it. The fact that those three hours had been his first sleep in the last forty-eight due to chaos aboard and planetside notwithstanding, it was unacceptable behavior in both himself and his crew.

Spock's helpfully pointing out that Captain James T. Kirk of the Federation starship _Enterprise_ seemed to have formed a _tradition_ of sorts in disregarding regulation was _not_ helpful.

Nor was the fact that, as the turbolift doors opened near his quarters, the communications system squawked out a self-satisfied "Spock to sickbay. Doctor McCoy, I believe the appropriate human expression is 'You owe me one'?"


	3. Haste

**Title**: Haste  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Warnings/Summary**: Missing scene from _Journey to Babel_.

* * *

As if one Vulcan cluttering up his sickbay weren't enough, all he needed was for a second to stagger through the doors with an armful of semi-conscious Captain, completely oblivious to disapproving paternal eyebrows.

When a puzzled security lieutenant comm'ed the sickbay seconds later, reporting a prisoner but no sign of the injured man, he only grinned knowingly at the fidgeting First Officer and wondered how the dickens he'd made it from the Bridge to Kirk before the security team.

Apparently Scotty wasn't the only crew member who could alter the laws of physics if the stakes were high enough.


	4. A Time for Every Purpose

**Title**: A Time for Every Purpose  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 752  
**Warnings/Summary**: (Minor off-screen CD), missing scene from _Where No Man Has Gone Before_.

* * *

He hesitated for another moment, weighing his future actions against the reactions likely to occur from his interference. He had possessed little respect or personal tolerance for Gary Mitchell, but it was patently obvious that any vocalization of the stark truth (either of that dislike, or of the necessity of eliminating the menace the man had become) would be both unwelcome and unhelpful.

At first, the best course of action had been quite clear; relieving Mr. Scott at the controls and then ordering the corridors cleared from the Transporter Room to the Captain's quarters had required little thought. Then the Captain materialized, cast him one helpless look, and hurled the phaser-rifle against the wall with enough strength for the collision to be heard in Engineering before sinking bonelessly to his knees on the transporter platform, and it was this that had precipitated his current mental quandary.

His mind reverted briefly to the only other time he had seen the human so stricken: on the first away mission gone wrong, only three weeks into their travels, when four men of a six-man landing party had been lost on an uncharted planet. The first of many deaths for which the young captain felt solely responsible, and that dark return to the Enterprise had resulted in a similar situation as confronted the Science Officer now. Kirk hadn't moved, other than to tremble with shock, in the two-point-six-seven minutes in which he'd been crouched on the transporter pad, and the same scenario seemed to be repeating itself now, some months later.

Then, he had not known the young captain well enough to do more than summon a medical team to the Transporter Room, and take command of the Bridge until relieved the following morning. But now…now he found that course of action completely unsatisfactory.

What then?

He had perceived that the Captain was, like most humans, oddly reassured by physical proximity, and so seating himself on the platform beside the huddled figure seemed the logical place to begin.

His supposition was proven correct by a quick expulsion of shuddery breath, and the slight scrambling of the human to scoot to a corresponding position beside him. For fifty-three-point-six seconds they remained in that position, and then he ventured to break the silence by asking particulars about what had happened on the planet.

A bit of gentle coaxing elicited more information than he had originally intended, and it was with some surprise, after the Captain had trailed off following a tale of old Academy days with Mitchell, that he registered more than an hour had passed in this manner.

"You were right, you know." Kirk's eyes were no longer gleaming with horror, only with controlled grief, and he knew then that the time here had not been wasted. "We should have killed him. Before he harmed the others."

"No, Captain." At the quizzical look, he explained. "I was indeed correct in my assessment of the situation and Mr. Mitchell's intentions, sir. But the burden of killing a living creature – much less an old acquaintance – in a situation other than strict self-defense is not a weight I would willingly see you bear."

He received a sad sigh. "It's a weight all the same," Kirk murmured, rising unsteadily to his feet and holding out a hand to his Science Officer.

For the human's sake, he accepted the physical contact despite the want of needing assistance. "I am certain it is, Captain," he replied solemnly. "However, it is a scientific principle that the distribution of weight makes said weight that much less strenuous for the bearers." They began to walk, Kirk stumbling slightly from weary reaction, toward the doors. "I would share this burden with you, Jim," he added quietly, allowing his tone to convey only complete sincerity.

"I may take you up on that, Mr. Spock. Later…when I've had time to…evaluate things."

"A sensible solution, Captain."

The doors slid shut behind them, and they moved down the corridor, silent save for the faithful, steady hum of power from the ship. He felt warm eyes upon him, and glanced over to see that peculiar, fond smile tugging at the human's mouth.

"Captain?"

"You may want to tell the crew they can use the corridors again, Mr. Spock. It's been almost two hours, you know."

"One-point-eight-six hours, Captain."

A strangled sound caused his gaze to glide quickly over once more, but he found himself relieved – if he could admit to the human sensation – to find the Captain was laughing, not weeping.

Good. There would be time enough for the latter.


	5. Permission in Advance

**Title**: Permission in Advance  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1295  
**Warning/Summary**: A conversation in the aftermath of _Mirror, Mirror _(warnings for all that that episode entailed). Spoilers for that episode and very slight spoilers for _ST: II _and _III_.

* * *

He was still re-orientating himself in his sickbay (the mirrored one had been more a chamber of horrors than a medical facility, and he was glad to be home) when the door opened behind him. Only one person on the ship could move that silently, and he looked up prepared for the impassive inquisitive gaze of the ship's resident logician.

He shoved the instruments he was organizing to one side. "What's up, Mr. Spock?"

One cocked eyebrow. "_Up_, Doctor?"

"I'm asking the reason for your visit, Spock," he sighed, running a hand over his hair and trying to not let his uneasiness show to the perceptive Vulcan. He still couldn't repress a twinge of apprehension when the man walked closer, and stepped backward to keep the same distance between them.

"I am here to inquire after your mental state, Doctor."

Startled, his eyes narrowed in more-obvious-than-usual annoyance. "Now look here, you –"

"Doctor, no doubt as to your sanity was intended," Spock answered patiently, face wooden. "Although I do reserve my own judgment on the subject, with good reason."

He contemplated telling the Vulcan a couple of things he could do with his own judgment, but decided the ensuing verbal war wasn't worth the price of the medical equipment that would end up flying around the sickbay. Besides, the First Officer was looking at him unusually soberly, and it gave him the willies.

"What do you want, then, Spock?" he demanded irritably. "Despite your opinion of my capabilities, I'm a busy man. Spit it out."

"Doctor, the Captain has apprised me of what my mirror-universe counterpart…committed against you," the Vulcan said quietly, but with a frown creasing his usually unperturbed face. "It is…an appalling breach of privacy."

"Well, it was no picnic, if that's what you mean," he muttered, shuddering off the memory. "But it wasn't very deep, from what I know of those infernal melds your people practice –"

Something knifed through the first officer's expression, and he was surprised to see the pain in those dark eyes. "Doctor, perhaps through your ignorance it seems a minor transgression, or perhaps you are simply more forgiving than is healthy for a non-telepathic species. But…" he paused, hesitating in his speech for the first time since McCoy had known him.

First time for everything. "But what?" he asked curiously.

The Vulcan inhaled slowly, and then exhaled even more slowly. "Doctor…what my counterpart committed is the telepathic equivalent to an unspeakable…violation. To invade another's mind without permission is…an atrocity. No other word is sufficient to describe the crime."

He digested this information slowly, and found himself more relieved than anything else to know the revulsion he felt over the ordeal was not over-reaction, in that case. The mirror-universe Spock hadn't harmed him in the meld, only took the information from the forefront of his memory – but just the same, it had been frightening, no doubt about it. At least he wasn't freaking out over nothing, and that was good to know.

Then he realized something, and quirked a smile that completely took the Vulcan off-guard, visibly startled at the illogical reaction.

"You came all the way down here to check to see I wasn't going to have a breakdown over it?" he drawled mischievously. "Mr. Spock, I had no idea you cared."

"I was passing the door," the first officer replied indifferently. "And as first officer of this ship, I have the duty to the Captain to see that his officers remain mentally stable at all times."

"Passing the door. On your way to where?" he pressed relentlessly.

Instead of rising, the familiar eyebrows drew together in a forbidding line. "Doctor, deflecting my attention is not an answer to my original question."

"And evasion isn't a response to mine," he retorted stubbornly.

One corner of the Vulcan's mouth twitched suspiciously. "I suspect the contact with a superior mind has been beneficial to your sense of verbal self-preservation, Doctor."

"Superior mind?!" he spluttered. "Why, of all the –"

"Doctor, it was simply a statement of fact."

"Yes, no doubt," he replied dryly, waving a scanner in a shooing motion toward the impassive figure. "Go annoy Jim for a while, there's a good Vulcan?"

One eyebrow delineated tolerant amusement. "You have not answered my original inquiry, Doctor."

"I'll be fine, Spock," he reassured, strangely touched by the persistence of the man. "All he wanted was the truth, nothing more personal. It wasn't pleasant, I admit it – but I'll be fine."

The first officer nodded solemnly, taking his word for an accurate diagnosis (he grinned inside at the thought that it was probably the first time his medical advice had been accepted without a ten-minute argument culminated in an administration of a sedative). "Very well, Doctor. But should you find – and you may – that you require assistance in…I believe the human term is _coping_…with what occurred, do not hesitate to ask."

Finally he surrendered to the smile he'd been trying to hide behind his hand, and shooed the man away once more. "Okay, okay. Now stop cluttering up my sickbay."

An injurious sniff. "I can hardly be considered useless domestic debris, Doctor McCoy."

Snorting, he was still thinking of a response when the doors opened to allow the Vulcan to exit. But he glanced up to see the man had paused, and was looking back at him.

"What?" he asked, unnerved by the searching gaze.

"You do understand, Doctor, that _I_ should never commit such an act against your unwilling mind, do you not?" The question was calm, but charged with an urgent undercurrent that he recognized as a subdued equivalent to worry, or whatever logical demand to be reassured that Vulcans felt instead of it.

"I think in this case it was considered _necessary_ by the mirror-Spock," he replied slowly.

Brows knitted angrily. "That is no excuse for such an act, Doctor. Even emergencies, with the unwilling mind of a friend –"

"Maybe it's not an excuse," he interrupted, personally relieved that the other thought so as well. "But if there's ever a need, an emergency, and you can't or don't have time to ask…I trust your judgment." Strangely enough, he knew that somehow he did; it would still scare him just as much as the mirror-Spock had done, but he did trust their Spock to stop short of wherever the line was that made the process become invasive. Jim trusted the Vulcan, always had – and he could too if it he had to.

That didn't mean he had to _like_ it, but he'd do it.

Dark eyes met his, and a quiet nod of reassuring acceptance before the doors closed behind the retreating figure. Oddly comforted by the non-expressive exchange, he continued with his work.

Why then, this seeping shiver of premonition that filled the back of his mind?


	6. Homecoming

Title: Homecoming  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock, Kirk, random red-shirt  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Summary/Warning**: Missing scene from the end of _The Tholian Web_.

* * *

He'd barely had time to squirm out of a weak half-hug from his commanding officer when the doors opened and a familiar blue-clad figure skidded to a halt just inside, instantly exuding nothing but tranquility when the captain limply waved.

He shot the newcomer a crooked grin. "Don't tell me you ran the whole way, Mr. Spock?"

"Hardly, Doctor," the Vulcan answered, unruffled. "Having been informed while in transit that the Captain appeared to be relatively unharmed, there would be no logic in such an impulsive action."

The door opened again, and a security guard poked his head in. "Sir, is everything all right? When we saw you flying down the corridor, we – _Captain_!" Eyes bulging, the young man completely missed the accusatory Glare-of-Death aimed at his head.

"Out," the Vulcan enunciated crisply, pointing.

Kirk smothered fragile laughter in his CMO's shoulder, and closed his eyes, glad to be home.


	7. Understated

**Title**: Understated  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1166  
**Summary/Warning**: Takes place immediately after _Journey to Babel_. Spoilers for that episode. Warning for McCoy snark.

* * *

_Chief Medical Officer's Personal Log, Stardate 3845.8_

Just like I suspected, our dear Captain's bull-headedness put too much stress on his injury, and before ship's night he was in a slowly-climbing fever from infection, which I'd been monitoring from the other room while I tried to finish the incident reports for this mess. At least what happened'll make a story worth telling on my next shore leave – and by golly I'd better _get_ one, after what I've put up with.

From what I can gather, Jim's fever was escalating; not enough for me to give him another dose of medication, but enough that he was moaning in his fever-dreams. Naturally, our resident walking computer thought it logical to leave his own bed (despite having lost enough blood to satisfy all kinds of ship-destroying vampires) and try to do whatever-it-was he was planning to do to help the Captain return to restful sleep.

I could've told the idiot he'd lost too much of that green ice-water he calls blood to even _think_, much less walk across the room, but it wouldn't have done much good and we both know it. Anyway, not even a Vulcan can go traipsing about in that condition, and so he passed out before he made it to Jim. Took seven steps, and then cracked his head open on the edge of the bed.

Mother dear woke up then, and shrieked loud enough to be heard in the Transporter Room. Sarek was not happy to be jolted to alert status by an emotional female, and by the time I'd picked up the equipment I knocked over and made it into the room, he was giving all of us that I-am-Vulcan-so-leave-me-the-dickens-alone look, although personally I think the old boy was a little worried about Spock.

Mr. Spock had done his efficient best to give himself a slight concussion and was losing blood that he didn't have to spare, and so it was a good two hours before I had time to step back and breathe, and realized poor Jim was now near-delirious with fever. The rest of the night is sort of a medical blur, until this morning I woke up from where I'd dozed off beside Jim, and found his bed empty.

I was about to raise Cain (and a security team) when I saw he was just sitting on the edge of Spock's bed, waiting for him to come to. Lady Amanda was awake, but silent, and Sarek either asleep or doing a darn good job of faking complete indifference.

"Bones," Jim nodded with a weak smile as I stretched and moved to get coffee from the selector. "What happened in here last night, exactly?"

"Your Science Officer decided to take a stroll over to your side of the park, and fainted," I muttered, drinking slowly. "He should've known better, but you were off your head and I guess it was the _logical_ thing to do, in his mind, to try and comfort you." _Logical, my sainted aunt_…

The Captain choked back a laugh, out of respect for the old granite-face at the other end of the room, but that didn't stop him from holding up one hand (the one not clutching Spock's) in that infernal Vulcan salute-thing, grinning, and saying "How many fingers am I holding up?" when Spock's eyes finally blinked a few times.

I accidentally inhaled my coffee, and so barely heard the tolerant sigh followed by "_Really_, Captain. I find that to be in extremely poor taste."

"Yeah, he's back to normal, Jim," I chuckled.

"Doctor, may I point out that coffee is synthesized to be drunk, not worn?"

"Very funny," I growled, setting down the empty cup and checking the readings just to be sure the Vulcan wasn't going to die on us. "One more crack like that and I'll fill you with enough painkillers your innards won't settle until after the conference."

"I believe that would constitute malpractice, Doctor." I was receiving the full benefit of the Patented Half-Vulcan Death-glare, but by now I can ignore it with the best of them. "It would give me pleasure to be able to at last legally prove the many potential claims against you, however…an acceptable trade for the temporary discomfort from the potions which you are so fond of injecting into my systems."

Lady Amanda's eyes were about to pop out of her aristocratic head, but she relaxed a little when Jim decided to take himself out of the crossfire and smile at her reassuringly. "They really love each other, deep down," I heard him say behind us.

"Captain, I assure you I harbour no such goodwill toward this dubiously qualified member of the medical profession, and furthermore –"

"Dubiously qualified! Who was it saved your sorry –"

"Way, _way_ deep down," Jim amended dryly.

"What planet is he living on?" I leaned over and asked, checking the Vulcan's head.

One eyebrow disappeared beneath the bandage. "Doctor, I am aware your powers of perception are somewhat inferior, but surely you are cognizant of the fact that we are not currently residing on a planet's surface?"

I prodded the lump on his thick head in retaliation, and grinned to see him wince and swat my hand away. "Will you cease that hovering, Doctor McCoy?"

Scowling, even though I only wanted to keel over at the quick recovery our friend appeared to be making, I responded as expected. "I'm a doctor, not a dragonfly, Mr. Spock. And anyway if I _want_ to hover, I'll _hover_ – it's my right as your physician."

I received an expressive grunt, the most emotion I was likely to get from him, and looked up to see Jim shaking his head, a smirk hidden behind the hand over his mouth. "Are you two quite finished?" he asked carefully.

"For now," I snapped, pointing to the other bed. "Get back in that bed, or I'll have you sedated. You've barely broken that fever, and you're not gonna to strain that wound any more, not on my watch."

He sighed, but surprisingly gave in without the fuss I was expecting. I glanced back at Spock, who nodded slightly, frowning as the Captain bent over him one more time.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

"Perfectly, Captain," came the calm response, though only I could see the reassuring half-smile that was all any of us would get from Spock (unless one of us came back from the dead again). "I shall be functional and departing this place of torment before the day is over."

"Over my dead body," I muttered.

"That could be arranged, Doctor."

Jim ducked my glare and asked for an aspirin and earplugs. I gave Spock The Look, and he sent Jim a telepathic sleep suggestion, which knocked him out before he'd even made it back to bed, yawning his head off.

And I'm beginning to wonder if that pointy-eared know-it-all didn't do the same thing to me, because even the coffee isn't keeping me awake now…


	8. Shift of Focus

**Title**: Shift of Focus  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 653  
**Summary/Warning**: Small scene after the end of _The Paradise Syndrome_.

* * *

Upon opening his eyes, the first officer immediately observed two things: one, his stomach was in absolute turmoil – McCoy's medications, no doubt – and two, that the man in question was hovering over his head, a finger pressed against shushing lips.

At his inquisitive eyebrow, the finger moved downward, to where a figure was half-slumped across the side of his bio-bed, head pillowed on gold-clad arms and emanating silent snoring.

He raised both eyebrows.

"Y'know, if I didn't know better I'd think you staged that whole collapse just to freak Jim out," McCoy was whispering, inspecting the readings above the bed. "I've been trying to snap 'im out of that depression for three days, and all you have to do is faint on the Bridge and suddenly he stops thinking about himself and starts worrying about you."

"Doctor, I assure you I could procure several considerably less…_debasing_ methods of attracting the Captain's attention than collapsing at my station," he returned dryly, but in a tone lowered so as to not wake the man sleeping near his head.

He glanced downward at the haggard face, relaxed in restful sleep for the first time since their return from the planet where his wife and unborn child had been killed, and decided this benefit to the Captain's well-being and health was worth his inexcusably human lapse in controlling his exhaustion and inanition.

"Embarrassed, Mr. Spock?" McCoy needled with a grin.

"Embarrassment is an emotion, Doctor. I merely regret the inconvenience caused to the Bridge crew, and have no desire to answer an onslaught of paranoiac questions upon my return to my post."

"Yeah, well, I _told_ you, even you can't refuse to sleep and barely eat for two months and expect your body to not shut down and call it quits for a while. And don't give me any of that 'I am Vulcan and can control starvation and exhaustion with my enormous willpower' nonsense." He expertly hefted a hypospray, checking the dosage of vitamins he'd been regularly injecting the Vulcan with.

"Doctor, I wish no more of your potions; were you not just yesterday attempting to provoke me into admitting to a greater appetite? A condition which I should never reach when you insist upon unsettling my stomach with your medication."

The physician snorted, tapping the hypo against his left hand. "Your stomach's doing somersaults because you haven't eaten solid food in _days_, not because of anything _I_ did. This's a mix of nutrients, that's all. Nothin' for you to get so worked up over."

"Doctor, Vulcans do not 'get worked up' over anything."

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Spock. Keep telling yourself that." He administered the hypospray, ignored the glare from his patient, and then bent to check that the Captain was still resting normally. "Now try to let 'im sleep for a few more hours, will you?"

"I have every intention of doing so, Doctor. Though I do wish I could extricate my arm, as my hand has developed a certain numbness..."

"Better than the pain in the neck Jim will have in a few hours," McCoy replied, grinning at the Vulcan's experimental wriggling out from under the Captain's limp head.

"Are you referring to the consequences of sleeping in such a position, Doctor, or the fact that you will be no doubt hovering nearby when he awakens?"

The physician spluttered, prowling around the room for a few seconds, the sleeping man being the only reason he did not immediately retaliate with a (slightly crude) response. Finally he swung back around toward the bed, intent on revenge, but stopped when he saw the Captain wasn't the only one asleep now.

Sighing, he ran one final scan and put the equipment away, then stood for a moment looking down at his patients.

"Vulcans don't smile, my eye," he muttered, finally grinning at the parting shot he'd received from the one in question. "Computer, lights to five percent."


	9. Damage Control

**Title**: Damage Control  
**Characters**: McCoy, Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**: 661  
**Rating**: K+  
**Summary/Warning**: Filler from end of _This Side of Paradise_, before the scene on the Enterprise Bridge.

* * *

He was tending the twenty-fourth black eye of the hour (while the method of the spores' destruction had been effective, the aftereffects of over four hundred crewmen at each others' throats in all-out brawling was considerably detrimental to his medical supplies) when the doors swished open to admit his Captain, swaying slightly on unsteady feet.

He shooed the groaning crewman into the next room to see Nurse Chapel, and turned just in time to catch Kirk as his legs buckled.

"Jim, what in blue blazes hit you, a shuttlecraft?" he demanded upon reading the scanner results.

"Try…one very angry Vulcan..." Kirk groaned, closing his eyes. "Bones, I tell you you're playing with fire, insulting him like you do all the time…trust me."

Ignoring both the attempted humor and the protests against a heavy painkiller, he administered the latter and glared down at his now-drowsy patient. "I can't believe you went all the way through beaming the whole crew aboard, as well as presiding over that conference, with a fractured collarbone and that much muscular tissue damage, not to mention –"

"Save it," Kirk muttered sleepily, waving him away with the hand not occupied by his angry grip.

"Does Spock have any idea about this?" he growled, eyes narrowed.

His patient blinked furiously out of a drug-induced haze and glared sternly. "No, and you're not going to tell him, either. That's an order."

"But –"

"Bones!" The protest was more a moan than a coherent word, and he couldn't find it in himself to object further. He nodded resignedly, and saw Kirk doze off, half-dead to the world within ten seconds.

He was surprised, but probably shouldn't have been, to hear his office communications unit buzzing him a moment later.

"Doctor, I regret interrupting you at your work, although I suspect your patients will be glad of the silence," the First Officer remarked, without more-than-usual acidic sarcasm. "But have you seen the Captain since you beamed back aboard?"

He debated for only a moment before admitting that the man was in the next room, asleep. He would have sworn that the channel picked up a small sigh, but the next moment he couldn't be sure. "Is he much injured, Doctor?" the Vulcan asked quietly.

"He'll live, and prob'ly be griping about it this time tomorrow," he replied lightly, in deference to Kirk's wishes on the subject's discussion. "The _next_ time you two want to go throwing each other into walls, do it in the gymnasium where they're padded and save me the clean-up afterwards?"

"Doctor, there was no 'each other'; the Captain barely tried to defend himself," came the pained murmur.

"He wouldn't," the physician groused irritably.

The channel buzzed for an instant, and a sleepy "Shut up and let a guy sleep, you two" was muttered into it from the ward's communications unit.

"Eavesdropping is hardly a well-mannered action, Captain."

"Get your backside back in that bed, Jim!"

"Then you get yours out here and see t' my crew, Doctor," came the slightly slurred response, full of drowsy indignation.

He muttered something that must have caused the Vulcan's eyebrows to incline precariously – he could practically _hear _them. "I shall leave you to your torture of the innocents, Doctor," came coolly through the unit.

"You do that," he retorted. "And I'll expect _you_ down here first thing tomorrow."

"Doctor, I have no need of your poking and prodding; I am in perfect health, as you no doubt have discovered the rest of the crew to be due to the influence of the spores."

"You're coming down here, and if you keep griping about it I swear I'll put the instruments in a refrigeration unit for a half-hour before you get here!"

It was Kirk's sleepy half-giggle that broke the stunned silence, as well as the tension and dread that had been present among them for the last few hours.

Listening gratefully, McCoy would have sworn even the Vulcan was smiling in relief.


	10. Discovery

**Title**: Discovery  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, bit of McCoy at the end  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 250 (is there a name for a drabbley-thing this length?)  
**Summary/Warnings**: Missing scene from _For the World Is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky_.

* * *

Even work-absorbed, his superior hearing did not fail to register the hiss of the Science Lab doors opening and then closing. He permitted a glance up as a figure slid into the chair across the table.

Kirk was covering a wide yawn, though black-purplish circles under his eyes showed that sleep was an entirely different affair than sheer exhaustion. Still dressed in his uniform trousers but with a curious woolen sweater over his tunic – a gift from his human grandmother, no doubt – he looked more lost than the Vulcan felt, though Spock would never admit as much in all the centuries he might live.

"Couldn't sleep," the Captain murmured curtly at his questioning look. "Nightmares. Bad ones. Any luck?"

"Not as yet," he admitted reluctantly.

"You've been at this for eight nights now…" Kirk stifled another yawn.

"And I will continue to do so until we discover what we seek," he answered firmly. "The cure is here, I am certain." _It must be_, he did not add.

"Can I help?" Kirk slurred, resting his head on one arm upon the polished table-top.

The dark eyes softened. "No. It is a matter of finding the correct entry in these logs and decoding it, a task you are incapable of performing."

"'Mkay," came the sleepy response. "Wake me up if you find it…"

Around 0400 hours the next morning, he _did_ find it.

But he allowed a whooping, half-hysterical Leonard McCoy the dubious privilege of waking the Captain to tell him so.


	11. Loyalty

**Title**: Loyalty  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 400  
**Summary/Warnings**: Just a little fun with the _Ultimate Computer _episode (which had like the best series-moment-ever in it).

* * *

Dinner had been silent due to the lack of crewmen in the mess hall, but not uncomfortably so; he was grateful for the solitude, because that meant he could get away with a public display of gratitude without embarrassing his Vulcan companion.

"For what you said, on the Bridge today, Spock," he clarified simply, in answer to the query. "At that moment, I didn't think anything could make me feel better, but you sure did."

His First Officer barely looked up from his vegetables. "I assure you, Captain, your state of mind was merely a pleasant side benefit. I was simply stating the truth to an audience who apparently was not aware of it."

Kirk smiled, not fooled in the least. "Well, whatever the reason, it made things a lot more bearable."

The Vulcan inclined his head graciously. "I do not profess to understand the feelings you express, Captain, but in that case perhaps it would make you 'feel even better' to know that I have filed a report against Commodore Wesley."

Kirk paused mid-bite, staring. "A report for what?" he asked, incredulous.

Spock calmly finished his last bite before answering. "For inappropriate and insulting verbal conduct toward a Starship Captain, and in front of subordinates."

Kirk's eyes softened perceptibly. "You'll never get that to stick."

The Vulcan's eyebrows inclined in a graceful shrug. "Perhaps not. But at least the protest will be logged in the official record."

"You probably shouldn't have done it, y'know," Kirk added fondly. "Wesley could make it miserable for you; I should know. I hope you weren't too hard on him."

"I believe, Captain, that you would much prefer the phrasing of my report to how Doctor McCoy suggested I word the document."

"Oh?" He hid his grin in his half-filled cup of Vulcan tea; stronger than any coffee the selectors could make, and more soothing after this black hole of a day. "Why didn't you take his advice?"

The Vulcan considered for a moment, face a mask of seriousness. "For one thing, the wording was highly emotional, Captain." Kirk grinned. "For another," his First Officer continued thoughtfully, "I believe it is anatomically impossible for the Commodore to –"

The only other two crewmembers in the mess hall stared bug-eyed as their captain sprayed tea all over his First Officer, hooting with laughter.

Oddly enough, the Vulcan did not seem to mind in the least.


	12. 1 of 20, Confident

**Title**: Confident  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Summary/Warnings**: Drabble written for the LiveJournal community **20paperplanes**, in which one takes a pairing and twenty prompt words and writes either a sentence or a drabble for each word. Drabbles are exactly 100 words, including title word and number.

* * *

#11 – Confident

He'd vaguely heard through the grapevine last he'd been on Earth that he and his ship were becoming something of a legend, but he didn't really believe it until one evening aboard ship.

He was in Rec Room Two, engaged in a mutual destruction of ego over the usual chessboard, when the nearby poker game erupted into minor chaos. Upon breaking up the good-natured out-shout-fest, he and his First were amused to be blithely informed by a clueless Ensign that she'd just cleaned out the game with a bluff that 'Fleet cadets were commonly calling a _Corbomite Maneuver_.


	13. 2 of 20, Stress

**Title**: Stress  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Summary/Warnings**: Drabble written for the LiveJournal community **20paperplanes**, in which one takes a pairing and twenty prompt words and writes either a sentence or a drabble for each word. Drabbles are exactly 100 words, including title word and number.

* * *

#13 – Stress

Twenty-three crewmen contracting the messiest stomach-virus this side of Antares was bad enough; but he'd been yanked from his three-minute catnap to find his two superiors had just attempted double homicide in the gymnasium.

Kirk admitted to distraction by a shapely yeoman's aerobics. Resultantly, his First Officer had accidentally hurled him thirty feet, straight at a bench-press. Said First Officer, in his rush to prevent Kirk from serious injury, had tripped over a set of barbells.

The fact that both were barely holding each other up was the _only_ reason he didn't smack them upside their groggy heads.


	14. Reparation

**Title**: Reparation  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 807  
**Summary/Warning**: Scene set after _The Balance of Terror_. Can you tell that my NaNo ground to a screeching halt yesterday morning? *crosses fingers that drabbling will loosen the flow*

* * *

"Hey," the friendly tone finally penetrated his morose thoughts, and he realized the Captain had been speaking to him for a moment now. "You're a million light-years away," Kirk added kindly when he blinked, stiffening in attention.

Even after several months with this human as his Captain, he found it difficult sometimes to accurately read the man's sense of humor, and currently he was not quite sure if the words were meant as a calm reprimand or simply an observation.

He settled for a suitably humble response in the event the former was accurate. "I was…attempting to assess how my egregious errors could have been prevented during our encounter with the Romulans, Captain."

Kirk nodded, understanding but not blaming, oddly enough. "In other words, you were brooding over a simple mistake."

"Vulcans do not brood."

"They supposedly don't make mistakes, either," his companion added, but with enough gentleness that he was aware of the point being made without any malice intended. "That doesn't mean the generalization is entirely true."

"It _is_ true that I…regret my mistake and what it cost the _Enterprise_," he finally admitted, slumping slightly against the wall of the turbolift.

Surprised both at the admission and the fact that the Vulcan was either too weary or too distraught to remain standing at stiff attention, Kirk was certainly pleased that he had read his First Officer correctly during the last hour and had acted accordingly.

"It could've happened to anyone, Spock," he ventured, trying a logical approach.

Unfortunately, it failed. Cold eyes flicked up to his warm ones. "I am _not_ simply 'anyone', Captain."

"No," he agreed, turning the disarming smile up to full wattage. "You're my First Officer, the best in the 'Fleet – and my friend, if you'll let me be one in return someday. And because that's something the crew of this ship apparently has somewhat forgotten recently, I'd be honored if you would have dinner with me in General Mess after you've seen McCoy."

"I had no intention of –"

"Yes, I know," Kirk replied dryly. "But don't think I can't tell when you're not feeling yourself. You breathed enough of that coolant to kill a full human. I was understanding of your wishes while we were in combat, but you _are_ going to see him now that the danger is over."

Spock recognized that particular protective tone, and knew resistance was completely futile. He resigned himself to being fussed over as soon as the lift would reach Deck Seven, steeling his nerves and schooling his features, and was preoccupied enough in doing so that he barely noticed the lift stop and the doors open.

Kirk exited ahead of him, as usual, and then surprised him by wheeling smartly about and standing at attention.

"Captain?" he asked, barely preventing his confusion from coloring his voice.

Then he saw behind the Captain, the corridor lined with blue- and yellow-clad figures, stiffly saluting in the somewhat outdated military fashion.

"Mr. Spock, today you saved the _Enterprise_, by firing those phasers manually and single-handedly, in a room filling with coolant gas," the Captain stated, his voice floating warmly down the corridor. "You then saved the life of Crewman Stiles, further endangering your own in the process."

The Captain's eyes darkened in suppressed grief at the knowledge that even that brave act had not been sufficient to save Tomlinson from the fate that had nearly overtaken Stiles, but it was soon banished in the warmth of the reassuring gaze he was sending toward his slightly-bewildered First Officer.

"Mr. Spock, the _Enterprise_ is in your debt, and her crew wishes to thank you," Kirk finished, saluting formally, first in the military fashion and then, hesitantly, in the Vulcan fashion he had carefully researched and practiced since becoming Captain of this ship a few months before.

Spock stood for a moment, overwhelmed by the idea that this new Captain of his had actually recognized acute humiliation and – if he would admit to it – embarrassment and the more inexcusable emotion of hurt over the reactions of the crew regarding his physical similarities to the Romulans. What is more, instead of gleefully confronting the Vulcan over the terrible breach of such humanity showing in public circumstances (as Dr. McCoy would have taken great enjoyment in doing), Kirk had instead detoured his abilities and sway as Captain to reinforcing in the crew's eyes exactly where the chain of command lay – and reassured that chain of his own confidence in the process.

James Kirk was an extraordinary human, he was only just beginning to realize.

Slowly he raised his own hand in the corresponding gesture, and saw smiles finally break out on the faces of the crew behind the expectant Captain. "The honor is to serve," he managed to say with perfect equanimity, and meant it with every part of his soul.


	15. 3 of 20, Loss

**Title**: Loss  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 100 (including title word)  
**Summary/Warning**: Spoilers for _The Man Trap_.

* * *

#07 – Loss  
He was pleased to see the Captain had apparently been more frightened than harmed by the creature, able to catch the swaying Doctor as the phaser clattered floor-ward. Staggering up, he perceived Kirk blocking McCoy's view of the body and the latter half-coherently sobbing apologies into the Captain's shoulder.

Policy dictated that Security be called, but to invite common crewmen into this private scene was unthinkably callous, even by Vulcan standards.

When he returned from eliminating all traces of what had assumed Nancy Crater's body, Kirk's silently-mouthed thanks over McCoy's head was reward enough for any regulation-breaking repercussions.


	16. 4 of 20, Pensive

**Fandom**: Star Trek TOS  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count: **100 (including title word)**  
Drabbles Completed**: 4/20  
**Spoilers**: _The Galileo Seven_

* * *

#10 – Pensive  
It'd begun after their third mission, after losing six crewmen. Spock was startled from meditation around 0100 hours.

"Can't sleep," the young captain had whispered. "Would you mind…?"

He had indicated a negative (one did not refuse a commanding officer's request, however bizarre), and the human had settled on a cushion, respectfully silent as he resumed meditating. Over time, this had turned into a post-disaster ritual – enough that McCoy never bothered now to check the captain's quarters those mornings-after.

Kirk was not surprised to hear his door chime softly, eight hours after the _Galileo_'s return from Taurus II.


	17. Things Unspoken

Title: Things Unspoken  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 1179  
**Summary/Warning**: End scene from _The Omega Glory_.

* * *

"You'll live," McCoy drawled, taking great glee in the Vulcan's discomfort over the flurry of attention following his collapse off the Transporter platform and subsequent rush to Sickbay. "Any human would've been dead by now from trauma – I mean your heart _did_ stop for a few seconds, although I wouldn't've believed you _had_ one – and then y'had to go and spend all the rest of your energy on mental voodoo..."

Spock decided responding to each link in the chain of insults would expend more energy than would equate the balance of his satisfaction, and so only wearily rebutted the last. "As the resident expert in dubiously qualified and obsolete medical practices, I shall accept your limited scope of perception regarding my abilities, Doctor."

From the other bed, being forced to remain awake due to the effects of his concussion (or concussion_s_, McCoy hadn't decided which), a half-drugged captain growled testily and hunched into his blanket like a cat hiding from a rainstorm. "Knock it _off_, you two."

"You keep quiet there, Captain sir. One cranky patient's enough for any old man's blood pressure – I don't need your flak in addition to Spock's."

The reply, muttered ferociously into the crimson pillow, was audible only to Vulcan ears, and the owner of them was not about to repeat to McCoy just exactly what the Captain wanted him to do at the moment.

"The only thing I don't understand," the CMO mused aloud, checking on the First Officer's healing injuries, "is how you managed to sprain all these muscles in your arms and shoulders, Mr. Spock. Y'had to have noticed you were hurtin' yourself."

A placid blink. "I assure you, Doctor, the condition has no pertinence to this conversation."

Kirk had slouched up on one elbow, glaring at his First Officer in that particular hypo-induced lack of tact that made McCoy throw data-PADDs and the nurses giggle privately during their coffee breaks. "What the heck were you doing, and when did _that_ happen?" he demanded crossly.

"Which of those questions shall I answer first, sir?" the Vulcan inquired calmly.

"Spock…"

"The condition developed while I was imprisoned on the planet's surface." Spock's eyes narrowed, stabbing irritatedly at the physician who was hovering too close for comfort to his head. "Doctor, is there a problem, besides your obvious?"

Kirk snickered drunkenly into his sleeve, but hastily turned it into a cough as McCoy turned a glare his direction. "Um…right, well…but when during our jail term?" he asked, frowning again.

For the first time, the Vulcan hesitated and looked awkwardly at his hands, clasped over his chest in repose. There was no dignity in refusing to answer, however, and so a moment later he glanced back up to meet Kirk's patient gaze. "During the seven hours and eight minutes which you spent in unconsciousness, Captain."

"SEVEN HOURS?"

"Bones…" the Captain moaned, clutching his head.

"You didn't tell me it was _seven hours_! How the blue blazes were you walking around afterwards?" The physician loomed threateningly over the cringing occupant of the bed, stabbing an accusatory finger toward the center of Kirk's head.

"You're changing the subject, Bones," the Captain said defensively, pointing the attention back toward his silent Vulcan friend. From the peeved expression hidden behind the dark eyes, said Vulcan would have been quite content to allow the converse to drift away from his own condition. "What happened while I was out, Spock?" he asked worriedly. "Did Tracy come back for you?"

"Nothing so crude, Captain. I was merely…unable to remove the bars from my cell window, and…expended an injurious amount of energy in trying."

McCoy did a double-take, putting both hands on either side of the Vulcan's arms on the mattress and leaning over him with a wide smirk. "You don't mean to say you were that worried when he wouldn't answer you, Mr. Spock? To the point of injuring yourself in an effort to escape? Hardly logical, wouldn't you say?"

"On the contrary, Doctor, it was a quite logical course of action," came the cool reply. "The Captain is the only person who is able to withstand your mental disturbances, and therefore is more valuable to this ship than I – no one else could save unsuspecting crewmen from your predatory clutches in situations such as this, for example. Logic dictated retrieving him as rapidly as possible in order to prevent your drawing us into more trouble than we already found ourselves."

The physician grinned, the words having no noticeable effect but to amuse; he'd been inoculated against Spockian insults months ago. "And so you hurt yourself tryin' to bust out and get to him."

"Emotionally stated and with considerable grammatical inaccuracy, but essentially correct, Doctor."

"Of course, bein' _worried_ had nothin' to do with it," McCoy pressed ruthlessly.

A pillow suddenly hit him in the back of the head; he caught it with a grunt and Spock raised an amused eyebrow. "Leave him alone, Bones," Kirk ordered, while trying to hide the fact that he was laughing in his blankets. Only succeeding in a strangled choking fit as a result, he ducked as the pillow was brandished threateningly at him.

"Only reason you aren't gettin' this upside the head is because of that concussion, Jim," the CMO grumped, pushing the welcome softness back behind his superior's aching head.

"Thanks," came the sincere, if laughing, reply. "When can I get out of here, Bones?"

"Not until I say so, which won't be until tomorrow morning at least!" the physician snapped in warning as the token protest rose and then died a painful death on the captain's lips. "Now shut up, both of you, and get some sleep!"

"But –"

"Doctor, really –"

The feral growl that sounded as the lights dimmed silenced both protests as the two commanding officers looked warily at each other across the small table that separated their bio-beds.

Spock raised an accusatory eyebrow. "He is rather what I believe you humans call 'grouchy' this evening, is he not?"

"Quite," Kirk agreed solemnly, eyes wide. "Do you suppose it's catching?"

"I do not believe so, although the condition does appear to be progressing steadily," the Vulcan observed sagely, pulling the thermal blanket up to his chin with difficulty due to his sore arms.

"Pipe down over there," the CMO bellowed from across the ward, though he was hiding his laughter behind the computer monitor; no sense in letting them know he was so relieved the nightmare was over that he was close to tears.

And when he heard the stealthy whisper of "Do you think we can make another jailbreak if he dozes off, Spock?" before quite serious discussion of the logistics involved in deactivating the sensors in their monitors without setting off the alarms, and making it through the corridors in Sickbay scrubs without being recognized ("We'd have to take the Jefferies tube down to Recreation Programming to throw Security off, you know"), he barely made it to his office before he collapsed with laughter.

Just another mission, another Stardate…


	18. Debts

**Title**: Debts  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 640  
**Summary/Spoilers**: No particular missing scene this time, just a what-if. Early fic.

* * *

They all remembered the first time it happened, simply for the novelty factor.

Captain Pike had been an exemplary officer. His loyalty to his crew and Starfleet had never been questioned. His relationships with his crew were impersonal by choice, and thus none ever approached him, emotionally or physically, unless necessary. Mr. Spock was the most notable leader in this amicable ostracization, keeping his distance (and more) and obviously preferring that state of affairs.

Then Captain James T. Kirk had whirlwinded onto the _Enterprise_, scattering all preconceptions of command style left, right, and center. Four months into their five-year mission, the new captain had broken his first Starfleet regulation; saved seventeen crewmen in doing so, but nonetheless had broken it.

The Admiralty decided to chastise their poster boy in full view of the Bridge crew, as a lesson to the brashness of youth.

Kirk stood, silent but with eyes flashing defiance and a refusal to promise to never repeat his actions, not if they would save his crew.

Sixty seconds into the tirade, jaws dropped around the Bridge – not from the severe censure, but from the fact that the unapproachable Science Officer had just moved protectively into position immediately behind and to the right of his Captain, close enough that their opposing shoulders nearly touched. He said nothing, face not quite visible to the Admiralty due to the screen angle but his presence unmistakable.

Kirk did not move, but some of the crimson left his countenance in a visible expression of relief.

The Admiral's tone lost a bit of its edge, subsiding into a stern growl rather than a tirade, and finished with a curt warning to not repeat the offense on pain of losing the captain's commission, even at the expense of seventeen crewmen's lives.

The screen went blank, and the crew eyed their new leader for his reaction.

Starfleet's youngest captain blinked at the starry screen for a moment, weighing the consequences of his past and present actions and wondering if he had been or would be found wanting, and by whom.

Finally, "No promises," he muttered loudly enough for the crew to hear, and plopped himself back into his chair with a decisive _thwock_. "Maintain course, helmsman."

His crew exchanged amused and respectful glances behind his back; not every captain in the 'Fleet, especially the Shooting Star of the Academy as he'd been called recently in a news clip, would take such a rebuke without choice language before or after the communication had been cut – nor would every captain have stuck by his beliefs despite the higher-ups opinions of rules and regulations.

And definitely, no other captain had seemingly won himself the support of the most brilliant and least sociable species in the known galaxy.

Kirk seemed aware of this last, for he glanced up at the silent figure still standing beside and just behind his chair. "Thanks for the moral support, by the way, Mr. Spock," he said easily but in a quiet undertone, knowing better than to make a public display. "It was a very…human thing to do, and I appreciate your sacrifice of your personal space."

"My 'sacrifice', as you so term it, Captain, was completely merited and therefore no real personal sacrifice, sir," the officer returned with sober equanimity.

Every ear perked toward the command chair.

The flush returned to the captain's face. "Oh?"

"Indeed, Captain."

"May I ask…why?" It was a shameless need to hear some sort of reassurance after the scathing rebuke, but not a soul within hearing blamed the young captain.

One eyebrow inclined gracefully, well knowing what was being asked, and for a moment Kirk felt quite foolishly human next to this brilliant Vulcan he'd been given as a Science Officer.

Then the dark eyes softened so imperceptibly that if he hadn't been studying them for any sign he would have missed the flicker, and then the censure and the Admiralty and everything else in the universe suddenly disappeared into a warm glow.

"Because _I_ was that seventeenth crewman, Captain."


	19. 5 of 20, Unsure

**Fandom**: Star Trek TOS  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count: **100 (including title word)**  
Drabbles Completed**: 5/20  
**Spoilers**: _The Galileo Seven_ contrasted with _The Tholian Web_. The differences in crew and command in those two episodes have always struck me; I may do a oneshot at some point on the progression.

* * *

#12 – Unsure  
He did not desire command, especially when attained through the death of the only man his human half pleased, and his Vulcan half dared, to call _friend_. Still, he had learned much since the Taurus II shuttle-mission.

His sincere welcome to the returning crewmen was met with sympathetic return to business; far different from the near-mutiny years before.

It was not until he sat in the borrowed chair, preparing an impossible gamble, that he realized he had learned to command more than just crewmen – now, _respect_.

He could only hope to have opportunity for thanking his patient teacher.


	20. Keeping Up Appearances

**Title**: Keeping Up Appearances  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, tiny bit of Kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 469 because I am too lazy to cut it down to a set number  
**Summary/Warning**: Missing scene from the end of _Immunity Syndrome_. Usual episode spoilers.

* * *

Pleased at his successful return, though more pleased that he had been permitted to go instead of Dr. McCoy, he had not expected his first encounter with a crewman to be the physician in question.

The unpleasantness of that alone was exacerbated by the fact that as the turbolift doors opened to reveal the CMO, they also revealed the Captain, apparently unconscious, slumped against the floor and wall of the lift.

"He was dead on his feet before we dropped two decks," McCoy grunted as the First Officer bent to one knee, in the doorway to prevent its closing on them.

"Doctor?"

"Oh, for the love of...It's an _expression_, Spock." An annoyed look. "No sleep for four days, barely any before that, and living on coffee and those blasted stimulants for the last forty-eight hours will _do_ that to a human – not that _you'd_ know. I told him that last dose wasn't a good idea but what do _I_ know? I'm only the Chief Medical Officer; my opinions don't matter a-_tall_!"

He was silent during the remainder of the colorful diatribe, well knowing that McCoy's way of releasing emotion was to attack the first likely candidate for its target; the verbal dance was a habit now, and one that was not unwelcome if he were to be completely frank with himself.

"Well don't just stand there lookin' at me, help me get 'im to Sickbay!" McCoy snapped, yanking one limp arm over his shoulder and trying to stagger to his feet.

After a momentary hesitation, the First Officer moved to help, taking the Captain's other arm in a strong grip.

"Good Lord…he's goin' on another diet as soon as we get those stimulants out of his system," the physician grunted painfully, his side of the unconscious man dragging far more than the Vulcan's side.

The jolting motion seemed to bring Kirk slightly back to consciousness, for he muttered something and tried to move his feet, though rather unsuccessfully.

"Perhaps it would expedite matters if I were to carry him, Doctor?"

"Not in front of his crew," McCoy replied softly, indicating the occasional ensign passing in cross-corridors. "It's bad enough that we're both obviously helpin' him."

"I do not believe the crew would expect differently, Doctor," he answered, just as gently.

"No, I don't guess so."

For one peaceful moment he shared a more comfortable look with the CMO over the captain's limp head, the argument of earlier forgotten in a common cause.

When they realized said common cause had managed to return to his senses to a small degree and was staring disbelievingly back and forth between them, the hastily-resumed argument over who was more qualified to have taken the shuttle and why drew the attention of every crewman within a hundred meters.

The Captain wisely decided to pass out again.


	21. Shared Humanity

**Title**: Shared Humanity  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 200  
**Summary/Warnings**: Missing scene from _Obsession_. Did anyone else notice that, after the scene near Garrovick's quarters, Spock left the corridor at the Captain's nod while the Captain talked to the Ensign – and then the next cut is to the Bridge and _both_ he and Spock walk onto it together?

* * *

Garrovick's call of gratitude was still ringing pleasantly through the corridor when he rounded the corner, running straight into a waiting figure.

Stumbling backward, he shot a glare upward at the impassive and yet somehow very self-satisfied (how did he _do_ that?) face of his First Officer. "Mr. Spock, you _are_ aware that eavesdropping is a highly human characteristic?"

"As is the tendency for the human brain to assimilate knowledge, even truth, far before the human heart will bring itself to believe it?"

He winced; that one hurt, but he definitely deserved it. "Has anyone ever told you, Mr. Spock, that you can be quite insufferable?"

The thin lips twitched. "I believe Dr. McCoy has on occasion said something of that nature, Captain."

After a faint laugh he slumped against the wall, with a hand covering his eyes. "Why and how do you put up with me, Spock?" he asked, voice muffled in his sleeve, and wondered how he was going to apologize deeply enough as he knew his crew deserved.

Inhumanly strong fingers around his wrist, pulling his hand gently away from the guilt and uncertainty it concealed, was all the answer he received.

And somehow, it was enough.


	22. 8 of 20, Rage

**Title**: Rage  
**Rating**: K+  
**Pairing**: Spock, Kirk  
**Drabbles Completed**: 8/20 (number went up because I'm using a few of my earlier drabbles to fill in a few prompts). Spoilers for _Amok Time_.

* * *

#04 – Rage  
McCoy didn't understand it, how they could simply move on as if Jim's second-in-command and closest friend hadn't 'killed' him. After the adrenaline wore off, and after a few lengthy and relentless heart-to-hearts, the incident was classified and dropped accordingly. The psychologist in him didn't get how the Captain could simply _let it go_.

Spock himself finally pitied him enough to explain that, in openly naming two humans as _friends_ and in pleading for Kirk's life before the familial matriarch, he had thoroughly shamed his family and honor – and that the Captain, illogically enough, considered that sufficient recompense.


	23. 9 of 20, Content

**Title**: Content  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Drabbles Completed**: 9/20

* * *

#15 – Content  
Stepping off the Transporter platform, he was surprised to see James Kirk himself waiting to greet him – in dress uniform. Elevated eyebrows spoke the question clearly, and Kirk smiled.

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Spock."

"Captain, I was only absent for four weeks, three days, and –"

"And way too many minutes," the Captain interrupted, laughing. "Welcome home, Spock. Let me walk with you to your quarters?"

Unaccountably pleased, he inclined his head, and realized that for the first time the word 'home' referring to the _Enterprise_ seemed appropriate.

The truth _was_ only logical, after all.


	24. Under Protest

**Title**: Under Protest  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Summary/Warning**: No spoilers.

* * *

"All right, that's enough talk," McCoy drawled sternly. "To your quarters, Captain sir – and actually get more than two hours' sleep for the first time this week, 'kay?"

Caught 'at it again' (meaning working eight-hour shifts in Engineering after this last destructive space battle instead of sleeping; how _could_ he, with his ship falling apart??), the Captain had been dragged to the Officers' Mess by Vulcan logic and what McCoy called old-fashioned Southern cussedness. A sandwich and juice later, he was being forcibly walked to his quarters.

"I'm just fine, Bones –"

"In a pig's eye," the physician snorted. "You're probably about to drop dead on your feet, Jim."

He favored McCoy with a defiant scowl. "What, exactly, gives you _that_ idea, _Doctor_?"

_Clunk. _

"Possibly, Captain," on his other side came the cool voice belonging to the hand on his arm, "the fact that you just ambulated into a bulkhead?"


	25. 10 of 20, Love

**Title**: Love  
**Rating**: K+  
**Characters**: Spock  
**Word Count**: 100, including title word  
**Drabbles Completed**: 10/20  
**Summary/Warnings**: Spoilers for _Requiem for Methusaleh_.  
**A/N**: And a personal explanation, as my opinion of that ending may differ from other people's perceptions. When Spock said "Forget," I don't think he was making Kirk forget about _Rayna_; only about the pain involved in her death or at his own actions in the episode. I can't see an invasion of memory-removal being either IC or sensible for Spock, under the circumstances (for Pete's sake, don't you think somehow a total loss of memory of the woman would have been evident to any or all of them?), _besides _the fact that it would be morally wrong. I think it was more of a "Remember the good, not the painful," than an entire memory block. Maybe my opinion, but I stick by it.

* * *

#01 – Love  
McCoy's caustic remarks are incorrect; he has loved before, though never categorized it as such. It is the hardest of all emotions to define, and the most illogical. Earth philosophers have defined it as the willingness to risk all for a friend, and Jim attempted to explain it once as wanting above all else to make someone perfectly happy.

Either way, he is not foolish enough to deny reality; he knows precisely his reasons for removing the pain – but not the sweeter memories – of Rayna, accepting the risk of rejection and anger as possible consequence for his actions.


	26. Childish Things

**Title**: Childish Things  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, McCoy, bit of Scotty  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 1,875  
**Summary/Warnings**: Written for the prompt _write something that takes place in a **small and/or cramped space**. Time: 45 minutes. _Bored crew + stuck turbolift + devious!McCoy = this. No warnings, no pairings.  
**A/N**: Written for the Trek LJ comm **chronometric**, where a prompt and a time period are given and a fic must be written around that time frame; pre-planning is allowed but no further editing when done. I'm surprised I managed 1875 words in about 51 minutes, but anyhow that's why it's a rough draft. Purpose of the comm is simply to have fun and loosen up the creativity.

* * *

Leonard McCoy was seriously considering writing a dissertation something along the lines of _Feel No Emotions, My Sainted Aunt_; or, _Observations of a Pouting Vulcan_.

To be fair, Spock wasn't the only one; one very miffed starship captain was giving him a run for his money in the grade-schoolish sulking department. Not for the first time, the CMO declared to Scotty over a glass of 'medicinal relaxant,' he wished that someone would just give both his CO's a good smack upside the head, or else that Klingons would pop out of warp and attack the ship or something to distract them.

It had started two weeks ago, after nearly a month of excruciatingly boring milk runs and absolutely nothing else of interest to divert crew attention and boredom, and had escalated from there.

Jim had gotten swamped with a series of reports from department heads who, due to intense boredom, were exponentially more detailed in them than usual. Stuck trying to understand why Ship's Stores could possibly have a clothing report eight pages long when absolutely nothing had happened for over a month, he missed a chess date with his First Officer.

Spock had, naturally due to being Vulcan, simply assumed something of the sort and had gone to Science Lab Eleven to begin a series of experiments on equipment calibration.

Six hours late for their appointment, the Captain had found him there and sheepishly informed him he'd been distracted, etc., etc.

The Vulcan had of course accepted the reason in his usual you-hurt-my-nonexistent-feelings-but-naturally-I-will-never-say-so fashion.

Next afternoon, the Captain had yawned after six hours of boring Bridge duty, and asked if they could reschedule their missed game for that night.

Spock had replied that his series of experiments were liable to take at minimum four-point-five-seven days and could not be interrupted; possibly at some time after their conclusion.

Jim had retired with a book to his quarters, and after four hours gave up and went down to the gymnasium to accept one of his more stupid lieutenant's challenge to a wrestling match.

Five minutes after the experiments were done, Spock stopped by the Captain's quarters, and found him working on crew psych evaluations with Dr. McCoy, their judgment somewhat impaired by a warming dose of alcohol.

Refusing the invitation to join them in their human social activities, he began another series of tests, this time on the spatial distortion calibrators.

McCoy had to have his nurses chase the Captain out of his Sickbay the next evening, as Jim's moping was getting in the way of treating their sole patient, a young ensign with a touch of allergic reaction to something in the arboretum (the most excitement Sickbay had seen in three weeks, though he wasn't complaining about _that_).

Even the densest crewman noted that the Bridge was creepily quiet the next day.

McCoy watched the Captain eat alone for three nights running.

He didn't see Spock eat at all for two more.

And so it had escalated until now, his two superiors were barely speaking beyond the usual work-related questions and answers. Said superiors had been sniping at each other for days, enough that the command crew was giving both of them a wide berth both on duty and off. Nothing bad enough that he could, medically speaking, call them on – and not even anything serious; just juvenile snippiness from tired and bored minds that refused to let go small issues that never would have been even blinked at had the crew been busy and content.

As Chief Medical Officer, he knew discord in the chain of command, however ridiculously shallow it was, wasn't good for crew morale. As a physician, he knew the only reason his Captain and First Officer functioned so well together was for the simple fact that they cared a great deal about the other, complementing the other's differences – and he knew that avoiding each other was both grade-schoolish and detrimental to their respective healths.

But as an equally bored crew member, he had to admit watching them scowl at each other across the mess table, arguing crabbily over whether or not Science Lab Eleven really needed a new molecular vibration amplifier to help in their study of the bacterium growing in an oxygen-less experimental compartment there, was highly amusing.

Still, they both needed to relax, but shore leave wasn't scheduled for the crew for another month – and he wasn't stupid enough to risk being impaled by two angry glares at suggesting they both take a day off duty and _chill_ until they could be civil again. Even _he_ wasn't that foolhardy when it came to Vulcan irritation.

In that case, he needed a second (even more devious) mind, and a more capable pair of hands for this job…

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Kirk complained, sliding down the wall into a sitting position, knees drawn up and arms resting on them.

"It does appear to be highly unusual," came the unflappable voice above him, as the control panel for the lift was removed and a few wires poked around. "Turbolift malfunctions are somewhat understandable, but for the emergency escape hatch to fuse closed, communications to be inoperative, and manually overriding these circuits to fail, would seem rather too much to be combined coincidence."

Kirk looked up, a troubled frown creasing his face. "You think someone wanted to trap the two superior officers of this ship inside a lift?"

"I have no data with which to hypothesize, Captain." A nearly-silent expulsion of breath sounded, as close to sighing as the Vulcan would ever come. "I am unable to effect any change over our present circumstances."

"Swell," the Captain growled irritably, as he leaned his head against the wall of the lift. Silence fell for an awkward moment. "…At least running diagnostics will give Scotty something to do other than tweak the selectors into producing random ethnic dishes for unsuspecting crewmen," he muttered, squirming on the hard floor.

Spock settled elegantly – always so annoyingly graceful – on the floor across from him in the small space. "I have been meaning to ask you, Captain, if you had given any thought to producing some entertainment for the crew of late," he spoke, formal and cool and all business; no sense in wasting this time.

"No," was the terse response.

"Dr. McCoy is concerned about the state of mind of many of the crew, Captain. Reaction time has been shown to be down by at least six percent in most, and evaluations have shown a marked increase in irritability and loss of temper."

Kirk glared at him in open hostility. "Maybe they're all just as sick of this supply run as I am. Humans tend to get that way when they're bored – not that you'd know about such human shortcomings, Mr. Spock."

"I know more than you might believe, Captain," the Vulcan replied dryly. "For example, I understand that for some reason I cannot explain and can only attribute to stress and tension, that you have been avoiding me for seven days and an undetermined number of hours."

Kirk's face flushed. "Avoiding you! Just because I was drowning in Mendel's report about how many pairs of pants the crew's going through in a week's time and forgot _one_ _little_ chess game, _you_ avoided _me_ for days afterwards!"

An eyebrow inclined indignantly. "Captain, I explained to you that the experiments would take at least four days; I did not fabricate that amount of time, as my staff can testify."

"Then what was your excuse after that?" the Captain challenged.

"I have been…busy," he answered, as close to mumbling, eyes downcast, as was possible for a Vulcan to be.

Instead of recrimination, the anger seemed to deflate from the captain as quickly as it had appeared. Kirk sighed. "Lucky you," he muttered, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall.

He shook his head, puzzled at the words, but saw no logic in continuing to carry on in the tense manner they had been for nearly a fortnight. "I regret that my actions were the cause of this tension, Captain."

Kirk cocked an eye at him in surprise. "What the heck are _you_ apologizing for? I'm the one that got ticked off about it all."

"Vulcans do not apologise, Captain," he reminded the human patiently. "I am merely stating a fact; I _do_ regret this."

"Me too," Kirk mumbled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "You didn't do anything, Spock…it was my fault."

"Blame rarely lies entirely with one party," Spock returned calmly. "However," he continued, as the captain grinned at him across the enclosed space, "I see no logic in continuing to discuss the matter."

"Mkay," was the amicable agreement, and for a minute they simply looked at each other across the stuck lift. "So…how long do you think we'll be stuck in here?"

"Judging by Mr. Scott's past rapidity in solving mechanical difficulties, and the close proximity of this lift to the Jefferies tubes immediately above Engineering, I should say no more than an hour, Captain."

Kirk looked annoyedly up at the useless control panel. "Well, we have an hour to kill then," he said companionably.

An eyebrow slid his direction. "Indeed. We _could_ utilize the minutes in completing crew evaluations for the lower decks; I do of course have the files memorized of those ensigns at the top of the promotion list."

"Yes, of course," Kirk chuckled, squirming into a more comfortable position. "But I'd rather just relax for a few minutes, if it's all the same to you."

Spock moved fractionally closer, and folded his hands upon his drawn-up knees. "What, exactly, did you have in mind, Captain?"

"Do Vulcan children have an equivalent game to _Rock, Paper, Scissors_?"

* * *

"I think that's enough, unless they're both more stubborn than I thought," McCoy growled, finishing his drink and waving a hand at his co-conspirator. "You can turn it back on now, let's see if they've kissed and made up yet."

The Engineer grinned indulgently and restored communications, opening the channel to the halted turbolift.

"I fail to see the logic in the paper enveloping the rock, Captain," the Vulcan's plaintive voice came through the speaker. "Would it not be more logical for the stone to rest upon the paper, effectively trapping it in place, instead of –"

McCoy's eyes bugged, and Scott began to laugh.

"It's a _game_, Spock, for Pete's sake!"

"An archaic one," the First Officer pointed out dryly. "Such implements as scissors have not been in common usage for at least one-hundred-eight-point-five years. It would be far more appropriate to our time period to replace these instruments with more effective ones, for sake of accuracy in this 'game'."

Kirk's low, genuine laugh was the most welcome sound either of the eavesdroppers had heard in a week. "What, you mean instead of _Rock, Paper, Scissors_ it should be _Rock, PADD…_and_ Phaser?"_

"It would certainly be more logical than the previous set of implements," Spock pondered aloud. "Phaser vaporizes Rock –"

"Rock shatters PADD," Kirk continued, chortling gleefully.

"Oh, saints in heaven preserve us," McCoy moaned, seriously considering impacting his head with the nearest wall. Multiple times. "Scotty, let that lift go or we'll have them trying to reinvent patty-cake while they're in there."


	27. 11 of 20, Bond

**Title**: Bond  
**Word Count**: 100 including title word  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Spoilers**: _Court Martial_  
**Drabbles Completed**: 11/20

* * *

#06 – Bond  
After seeing Finney and his daughter were cared for, he authorized shore-leave parties but remained aboard himself, thrilled to simply _be_ with his ship, after genuinely believing for a while that he might never sit in the Captain's chair again.

It was not until later that ship's evening, while catching up on paperwork, that he came across a document in the temporary storage folder reserved for his command staff: a Starfleet resignation notice, left undated but with the clarification that it would be put into effect immediately, in the event of his court-martial deciding a verdict of _guilty_.


	28. 12 of 20, Hot

**Title**: Hot  
**Word Count**: 100 including title word  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Spoilers**: _Return of the Archons_  
**Drabbles Completed**: 12/20

* * *

#18 – Hot

"Old-fashioned" had either been a kind way of saying "Hey, Spock, you're reacting with emotion and that worries me," or else a pointed reminder: "Spock, you're going to regret that and will embarrass yourself if you don't maintain control."

He knew the captain thought he was simply frustrated with the entire ordeal, possibly overwrought from the enforced show of mindless emotion required to maintain the Archon charade.

He would never divulge his true reason – the remembrance of the grief-stricken agony in Jim's voice, as he was forced to strike his friend and Chief Medical Officer to prevent betrayal.


	29. 13 of 20, Happy

**Title**: Happy  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Drabbles Completed**: 13/20

* * *

#17 – Happy  
Dr. Leonard McCoy had just spent the last eight minutes attempting to explain the idiom "a clean bill of health" to his new First Officer, only to finally stomp away in growling frustration.

Now, Kirk gave the Vulcan a pointed look. "We both know an eidetic memory like yours can't _possibly_ be as ignorant of human speech patterns as you pretend to be," he said amusedly.

Not surprisingly, Spock neither contradicted nor agreed with his words.

"Why on earth do you act like it, then?"

One eyebrow inclined in a simple shrug. "Because it apparently amuses you, sir."


	30. Simple Methods

**Title**: Simple Methods  
**Characters**: McCoy, Kirk, bit of Spock  
**Word Count**: 150  
**Warnings**: No spoilers. Misuse of catchphrase? IDEK where the cracky randomness came from, so don't ask...

* * *

After five weeks of mundane charting missions, the crew of the _Enterprise_ and especially her captain were decidedly antsy. Morale was down by twelve percent, efficiency by seven, and the general atmosphere hung low, almost funereal in its dourness. Jim was snapping at everyone brave enough to come into his personal space, Sickbay was filled with mildly depressed and lethargic crew, and no one had cracked a joke on the Bridge for days.

Sometimes the simplest – crudest, some might say – methods were the most effective, so McCoy always believed, and his solution of the day for the rampant boredom took the shape of a hand-lettered sign on the First Officer's cabin door.

_Out of my Vulcan mind, BRB._

Even Spock admitted the juvenility was worth the effort when they came around the corner to find James Kirk sliding down the wall to the floor of the corridor, hooting with laughter.


	31. Absence

**Title**: Absence  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk, McCoy  
**Rating**: so very K  
**Warnings/Summary: ** No spoilers. 100 words but it doesn't fit into my LJ drabble set so no real point other than randomness.

* * *

"Spock!" The captain's eyes glowed with welcome as the Vulcan stepped off the Transporter Pad. "Four weeks is too long for you to be away guest-lecturing, mister," he stated with mock severity, though he was grinning shamelessly at his returning First.

Dark eyes glinted for a moment. "Indeed, Captain. I found after ten days, that I have become…unusually accustomed to your presence, and determined the absence to be somewhat disconcerting."

"Why, Mr. Spock," drawled McCoy from behind them. "Did you just say you actually _missed_ us?"

"Certainly not, Doctor. I believe what I said, was that I missed the _Captain_."


	32. Preference

**Title**: Preference (Prompt #8 - Horny)  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**: 150, including title word  
**Drabbles completed** for **20paperplanes** : 15/20

* * *

#08 – Horny  
How James Kirk preferred spending his spare time was no great secret, though his reputation was highly exaggerated. His personal ethics never pursued a member of his crew – or any other captain's crew – which made the rare social occasion even more welcome. Unfortunately, during most of these occasions, his time was monopolized by Starfleet brass wanting to show off their poster-boy.

His exotic First Officer was, much to Spock's dismay, much sought-after by females of many species at said social functions, driving the gentle Vulcan nearly into hiding but for his dogged loyalty to remain within rescuing distance of his captain.

They had an unspoken arrangement. Ten minutes of tolerating their respective audiences, and then –

"Ambassador Lurenna, may I introduce Captain James T. Kirk?"

"Positively charmed, Ambassador. Doctor Jacinto, you remember my First Officer, Lieutenant-Commander Spock? The doctor is fascinated by your experimental cold-core warp intermix formula, Commander..."


	33. 16 of 20, Cold

**Title**: #19 - Cold  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**: 200, including title word  
**Drabbles completed** for **20paperplanes** : 16/20

* * *

#19 – Cold  
He is quite aware of when he begins to consider this small dynamo that is James T. Kirk to be more than just his Captain.

The _Enterprise_'s temperature is of course set at Terran norm (cold, for him), but the uniform-addition of a thermal undershirt solves the difficulty, and he is only slightly chilly on most days. Somehow, his new Captain discovers this, and is aghast at Starfleet's little regard for the comfort of other species. He shrugs off the human's indignation, for it would be highly illogical to make the crew uncomfortable for one being's sake.

He has never been so startled as when, four days later, a rush of warm air abruptly begins blowing across his lower legs, obviously from a hidden vent under the Science station.

Surprised, he relaxes under the welcome warmth, and from behind him hears the Captain's "Good work, Scotty."

He swivels from the warm current to meet the human's eyes, and Kirk looks as if he's swallowed a star, so brightly does his shy, pleased grin light up the Bridge.

_Illogical_, he thinks, but for a moment he could believe Jim is capable of warming the entire ship on that smile.


	34. 18 of 20, Depression

**Title**: #05 - Depression  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**: 150, including title word  
**Drabbles completed** **for ****20paperplanes** : 18/20

* * *

#05 – Depression  
While usually a sunny, well-adjusted individual, Captain Kirk is still human, and as such occasionally has mood swings. These instances are few, and triggered by boredom or tragedy rather than pettiness, but they do occur.

A Vulcan can do little here; if James T. Kirk does not wish to be 'cheered up,' then he simply will _not_ be. Kirk will stare at a blank viewscreen for hours, and will barely respond to anything short of a red-alert.

This is why, when Dr. McCoy pops in and promptly begins his favored pastime of laying-into-the-hobgoblin, instead of doing what any true Vulcan would and ignoring the physician, Spock returns the verbal poking, and even allows it to escalate.

It is well worth it, to watch the Bridge crew metaphorically run for cover, and to see how long Jim will fight this time to keep the twitching grin off his lips.


	35. 19 of 20, Blah

**Title**: #09 - Blah  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**: 100, including title word  
**Drabbles completed** **for ****20paperplanes**: 19/20

* * *

#09 – Blah  
_"You are quite certain?"_

"Quite, Mr. Spock. Repairs will take at least four hours; you'd better make yourself comfortable." He grins at his Chief Engineer's eye-rolling. "And Spock," he adds before closing the channel, "enjoy yourself?"

"D'you really think he's gonnae fall for that malarkey, Captain?" Scott rebukes fondly.

"Oh, yes," Kirk answers, smiling with mischief. "After all, Mr. Scott, it would be highly _illogical_ to fabricate a transporter malfunction, just because our dear Mr. Spock has been extremely grouchy for five days, and just because this planet's temperature, gravity, and native flora are nearly identical to Vulcan's."


	36. 20 of 20, Lust

**Title**: #02 - Lust  
**Pairing**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: G, despite the prompt :P  
**Summary**: Meant as non-slash as all of them are, but if it floats your boat to read it that way feel free. The prompt screamed for something either inappropriate or angsty, and so in my usual rebellious fashion I refused to do either. :P I had fun with this one.  
**Prompts completed **for **20paperplanes**: 20/20

* * *

#02 – Lust  
It's the last night of a four-day shore leave, and none of the Starbase-side crew know where their command team is. Kirk and Spock disappeared together from a nearby Thai restaurant earlier in the evening, and no one has seen them since.

Leonard McCoy allows the leers and speculation until he deems it has changed from good-natured to borderline-disrespectful, and then he sets the record straight (no pun intended) before leaving the half-inebriated group.

Then he checks on his COs. Jim and Spock are right where they said they'd be – deeply buried behind two antique volumes and cups of herbal tea in the Starbase's bookstore/coffee-shop, and nothing short of a red alert is going to move them for the next four hours.

He grins to himself as he turns from the window, and wryly hopes that Scotty and Uhura are having a more exciting last night of leave.


	37. Close Calls

**Title**: Close Calls  
**Characters: **Spock, McCoy, bit of Kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 1538  
**Summary**: The usual fluff-insanity, barely edited and just for fun. Fill for the STTOS kink meme prompt (thread link) _I want genfic of McCoy and Spock secretly biffling over some kind of science project or something. Have someone walk in on them as they're being friends and be shocked and scandalized, with the two quickly trying to hide their BFF status with their usual banter.  
_Warnings: Spoilers for one of my fave episodes, _The Immunity Syndrome_. Blatant lack of sound scientific knowledge; I'm an English teacher, not a scientist. I did my best to bluff my way through (to quote the Flash in _JL: Crisis on Two Earths_) 'speaking Star Trek', but then again half of Star Trek was utter baloney so I'm in good company, y/y? :P

* * *

"Wait, let me get this straight." 'Cause he sure as heck _isn't_ getting it; Spock doesn't speak to him without taunting his humanity, doesn't share his scientific data or discoveries with him, doesn't even agree with his conclusions on the odd occasions Medical has to work directly under Life Sciences aboard the _Enterprise_.

And the pointy-eared hobgoblin definitely doesn't _compliment_ him.

He's just beginning to wonder if he could discreetly run the Pon Farr psyche scan on the Vulcan without being noticed when the timer chirps for the (corrected and re-run, based upon the data collected on the organism) acetycholine test.

"Get what 'straight,' Doctor?" Spock peers into the scanner, assimilating data at a speed that reminds him of his nights spent cramming for Starfleet xenobio exams. "As we suspected, the organism's membrane did contain a high concentration of what resembles acetylcholinesterase. Our method of, quite literally, blasting the organism into pieces with antimatter was rather crude; a synthesized negative antitoxin designed to attack this enzyme might have yielded the same results of destruction, over a short space of time. Paralysis and eventual death."

"But it's _not_ acetylcholinesterase, and that's why your first calibrations were off in the test," he points out, jabbing a finger at the many lines of genetic code. "Just the fact that a one-celled organism can have its own central and peripheral nervous system tosses all our scientific knowledge about eukaryotes out the airlock right off the bat. And did you just compliment me, Mr. Spock?"

"I stated facts, Doctor. How you choose to interpret them according to your whims is your own prerogative."

"And besides, we didn't have time to wait for an antitoxin to attack the enzyme and break it down," he points out, furiously scrolling through the genetic code and marking the major differences between their known data on typical single-celled organisms. "Also, this still doesn't explain how it feeds off both the energy of the Enterprise's fuel cells as well as our own nervous energy. And I suppose that's as close as I'll ever _get_ to a compliment, from you at least."

He rolls his eyes at Spock's bent back, though he can't really put any annoyance into the gesture. After all, it isn't every day that a Vulcan informs you that the Vulcan Science Academy has already asked that you (along with Spock, naturally) attend a week-long lecture tour in ShiKahr to present your findings on the organism that killed the _Intrepid_ and her Vulcan crew.

Spock makes a gesture that is undoubtedly a well-bred _shush, you illogical human_ motion, as he pulls up the results of the energy signatures emitted from the 'space amoeba,' as Jim had slurringly dubbed it in his log before keeling over from stimulant withdrawal twelve hours ago. McCoy had pumped him as full of stims as he'd dared, and he hadn't found out until two hours after they left the system after destroying the organism that the resourceful captain had 'found' several more to keep him on his feet far longer than he should have been. He'd crashed for now in a private cubicle behind their small research lab.

"What is of greater interest, is the method this organism used to convert our positive energy into usable fuel for its sustenance and reproduction," Spock says at last, and he tries to not laugh as the Vulcan begins rummaging through the stack of PADDs on the research table, flinging the irrelevant ones haphazardly into a pile underneath. "No one-celled organism should be able to absorb and convert fuel without physically engulfing it, and yet this was obviously feeding off our nervous energy long before we would have been absorbed through its outer membrane."

He yawns, and hopes Jim and Scotty will be awake and back on duty soon so that he can sleep too, sometime this _week_. Then he waves a hand, wanting to get back to the (now _not_-botched, thanks very much) acetycholine test results. "So it's a galactic energy-sucking leech-amoeba then. But one thing at a time, Spock, for the love of Pete."

"I would suggest we come up with a more scientifically precise name for the organism before we present this data to the Board of Life Sciences on Vulcan, Doctor." And darned if the Vulcan isn't smirking at him, with his eyes of course, but their twinkling is obvious enough that any full Vulcan would have died of horror on the spot.

He would stick his tongue out at the Vulcan except even _he_ thinks that's a little juvenile. _Maturity_ uses hand gestures, of course.

Spock does not roll his eyes at the crudity, but the patiently longsuffering look he gets is just as good a reaction. He grins and bends back over the tests Spock performed regarding the reproductive processes of the organism. "Can you imagine what would have happened if there had been two of those things?" he asks conversationally, shuddering at the very thought, though he isn't really sure why he's asking such speculation of a Vulcan.

"I find myself unwilling to contemplate it, Doctor. I am far more interested in your postulations about the organism's systemic structure being so vastly different from what we know of eukaryotes. Our primary hypothesis to research must be: can this creature, by definition, be classified as one such eukaryote, according to what we know of single-celled organisms?"

"Not by our classifications, no. It had a nucleus all right, the proper chromosome combinations, protective membrane, organelles…everything a eukaryote has, but then there is all this extra data here," he punches a series of tests into view on the PADD, and they both bend over it, heads almost touching, "that indicate a complex nervous system."

"A nervous system, but no central processing unit."

"Nerves, synapses, ganglia, everything – but no brain to process and define the impulses," he finishes, and they both raise identical eyebrows at each other.

Spock looks back down at the PADD, eyebrows drawn, and opens his mouth.

"Don't even _say_ it's 'fascinating,' Spock, or so help me I'll make you babysit the Captain when those withdrawal symptoms start after he wakes up," he warns, and means it completely.

Spock spares him an indifferent glance, and it's an empty threat anyhow because they both know he will hover like a worried mother over the captain regardless, and the Vulcan pushes a secondary PADD toward him. "Have you reviewed the individual chromosomes and how the genetic code differs from what we are accustomed to seeing in such organisms?"

"Yeah, and I've got a theory about that, Spock," he begins, scribbling out strings of DNA sequence beside the test results. Spock bends over the table, watching his swiftly-moving stylus with complete, almost unnervingly so, attention. "It might just be that –"

He never finishes, because he hears a dull thud behind him, and they both turn to see that the fearless captain of the _Enterprise_ has just walked straight into the wall.

Spock's lips twitch suspiciously un-Vulcanly, as the still-groggy James Kirk glares at the spotless durasteel and aims a retaliatory – and quite wobbly – kick at its pristine expanse before turning to eye both his friends suspiciously. And drunkenly, because the stimulants are nearly out of his system now and he's about to crash. Hard.

"Nice to see you two working together for a change, without being threatened," Kirk mutters, rubbing his eyes with both sets of knuckles and weaving on his feet. "Been listening to you for ten minutes," he adds, all the while beaming hazily in their general direction.

Aghast, they trade glances, and he tries not to laugh at Spock's horrified expression.

"Don't trust what you hear under the influence of those stims, Jim boy," he drawls, and tosses the stylus down on the table. "All you heard was Spock givin' me the run-around because he survived that space amoeba and I wouldn't've."

"And you no doubt overheard Dr. McCoy's incessant drone regarding my one test out of thirty-six which did not meet his exact specifications. He was growing to be quite a minor annoyance." Spock adds, and Jim is too far gone to do more than blink suspiciously at the innocent tone.

"Minor annoyance!"

"I would have said _major_, Doctor, but unfortunately your limited human scope in these areas is barely worth recognizing as more than a minor irritation."

"I'll show you _irritation_, the next time you're in here for a physical," he threatens with a feral smirk, and imitates a hypospray depressing directly into the Vulcan-sensitive palm of the hand.

The Captain's head is bobbing back and forth, trying to follow the dialogue like a cat trying to catch a table-tennis ball, but finally he gives up the battle for both his comprehension and his consciousness, and passes out neatly into their combined arms.

"That was a close one," he grunts as they shove their fearless leader back into the bed he vacated minutes before, and if Spock's eyebrows grin at him over Jim's head the hobgoblin definitely won't ever admit to doing it.

Nobody would ever believe him, anyway; everyone knows he and Spock repel each other like matter and antimatter, complete with the usual explosions.

They both conveniently ignore the scientific fact that opposites _attract_.


	38. Outsider

**Title**: Outsider  
**Characters**: McCoy, Kirk  
**Rating: **K+  
**Word Count:** 2434  
**Warnings/Spoilers: **Spoilers for _Amok Time_, interpretive license on the kal-if-fee scene.  
**Summary**: Inspired by the **st_tos_kink** prompt of _Anon has a friendship kink, of all things, and also h/c, and would adore ANYTHING AT ALL involving Kirk and/or Spock having to comfort Bones. I don't care why. Maybe he lost a few too many patients. Maybe it's after the Empath, or City on the Edge of Forever, or just anytime. But I want crying and hugs. PLEASE.  
_**A/N: **Takes place just after the beam-up at the end of _Amok Time _(the missing Sickbay scene). Technically the hug and crying is in there but it's not overt, so I don't consider it a real answer since the anon probably had something more drastic in mind. This has sat unfinished on my hard drive for weeks, and I ended up completely rewriting it into Kirk's POV. Betaed less than my usual, because I need to get these WIPs done while I still have a couple of days off. Also, I think this is the first time I've written more than a drabble that doesn't involve Spock. o.O

* * *

Jim Kirk can tell immediately upon waking where in his ship he is, no matter the time or day, and without needing to open his eyes.

No one except Engineer Scott memorizes the _Enterprise_ like he has, every passage and duct and storage unit of her, and he knows well every centimeter of his silver lady. Now, he doesn't need the smell of a sterile field, the hum of a dermal regenerator, or a cranky voice barking orders, to know that he's waking up in Sickbay.

Wait, _waking up_ in Sickbay?

His eyes fly open, and though the rest of him is moving sluggishly the tingling sensation is welcome to him, because it means he's not dead.

A moment later, he almost wishes he were, because he's never seen Bones look so angry in his entire life.

"Do I want to know how you pulled this one over?" he manages to ask through stiff throat and jaw muscles, as the physician more hurls than hands a clean command tunic to him.

"Neural paralyzer, _Captain_," McCoy spits at him, and the icy fire in those blue eyes shocks his sleepy system into wakefulness with the full realization of what just – almost – happened.

He tries to concentrate, which isn't overly successful for various reasons; the chief three being that his career has been shot to pieces now with this going-against-Starfleet-Command trick, that Spock is still on Vulcan and no one knows if he's even still alive or if he's marrying that worthless woman to produce one perfectly logical mostly-Vulcan honeymoon baby, and that his CMO looks close to exploding in his face over something probably related to the first two.

He's been given back his life, but that's probably all he'll have by the time this mess is cleared up. He'll be lucky to escape without a court-martial, because he's been on thin ice with Komack for months now, and he can just see the styluses and paperwork and the desk waiting for him back on Terra looming in the distance. The only light at the end of the tunnel is that of a train, about to run him and his career and his life over, tossed mercilessly under the rails.

If he weren't so glad to be _alive_, he might just curl up on the bed and cry.

But he doesn't, because he's the captain and he can't afford to. Instead he flashes McCoy a weak grin; the Kirk bravado is always his weapon of choice and he wields it like a master of the arts. "Neat trick, Bones. I owe you one."

Blue eyes smolder at him in hostile silence.

He can feel the sensation returning to his extremities at last, and he struggles to a sitting position on the biobed. Bones doesn't move a muscle to help him, all icy distance where he would usually be hovering gentleness; he must truly be upset.

He doesn't have time for this. "All right, _Doctor_, spit it out," he snaps more irritably than he means to, because he needs to figure out where Spock is and if there's any way he can dig himself out of trouble with the Admiralty before they hand his ship over to someone else. "It's not like I knew the stupid thing was a fight to the death – Spock conveniently forgot to mention the possibility of that challenge and it's not like the rest of them were going to specify details to outworlders!"

And with that denial, McCoy snaps, cleanly as a dry stick being broken for kindling. He recoils slightly from the barely-restrained fury. "I'm more angry with _you_ than with Spock or the rest of his precious _family_," Bones spits the words out as if they're weapons he can use to drive his point home, and he winces instinctively.

Worse, he has the sinking feeling that he knows just the reason for his friend's fury, but he has to play along in hopes he isn't right. "For heaven's sake, why?"

Bones shoots him a withering look, and slams the dermal regenerator down on the table. "Oh, I dunno, Jim…maybe because you just about got yourself _killed_ down there?"

"It wasn't my fault," he protests again.

He jumps, and Chapel sticks her head into the room worriedly, when Bones swears roundly at him. The nurse is wise enough to retreat before things are thrown at her, but he's a bit trapped between the wall and the physician and can't follow her.

Finally the man winds down, and impales him on the end of an icy look. "_Captain_," and the word is infused with as much anger as it can hold without further explosions, "I've a good mind to place you on medical report for suicidal tendencies!"

He recoils as if physically slapped, struck momentarily speechless. Then a wave of anger floods his still-awakening nerves, and he folds his arms over his chest, meets the physician's fury with the defiance of his own.

"And on what grounds do you possibly think you could make that charge stick, McCoy?" His voice is cold, deadly even to his own ears, and some half-hysterical part of him wonders why he's even bothering; he's going to be relieved of command anyhow, and whatever report McCoy wants to make is only going to expedite the process.

"Because I know you, Captain," the doctor snaps out through his teeth, "and I know Spock – and I know the physical limitations of each of you this afternoon."

"Your point?"

"My point, _sir_," and he'd be dead if the word could physically shoot venom as well as it does metaphorically, "is that you weren't fighting that battle to _win_."

The anger disappears for a moment under a wash of shock and slight panic.

"The fact that you can't truthfully deny it proves it," McCoy continues, glaring at him. "You were fighting to lose, Captain; actually you weren't really fighting at all, were you now?"

He isn't about to answer that, partly because it would be damning and partly because his motives aren't really clear even to himself. But his mouth keeps moving, because the dead space has to be filled with something other than awkward breathing.

"If you intend to file medical charges against my capability to command due to psychological imbalance, Doctor, then you will need to provide proof of such."

A mirthless, bitter smile twists the older man's lips. "Proof, Jim? All right, if you insist, I'll start with these facts."

He sits back, waits for the physician to lower the boom in true McCoy style.

"Fact Number One: James Kirk knows six separate forms of self-defense outside the usual methods taught in Starfleet training. He packs far more muscle mass into that compact body than you'd think from lookin' at his size. He has no objections to 'fighting dirty' if it suits his purpose. His greatest combat strength is finding weakness in his opponent and using any method and weapon available to plunge into that exact chink in the armor."

Cold sweat drenches the neck of his clean tunic, for this physician knows him better than he knows himself – and he's right on every particular. The case against him is steadily growing more condemning with each word.

McCoy continues, pressing on with all the ruthlessness of a snake striking for the kill. "Captain James Tiberius Kirk has before taken out as many as seven men at a time in a brawl when the situation demanded; he will not give up until he's down for the count, and that count takes a heck of a lot longer to reach than most people's. His pain tolerance is off the charts – enough to be borderline-masochistic to a psychiatrist's eye – and when his deepest temper and drive are released he transforms into a small tornado that is perfectly capable of wreaking havoc on an unprepared world."

He gulps, and wishes he had Spock's ability to lie to Sickbay scanners and psyche profile tests through sheer force of will.

"He also spars twice a week with a Vulcan," McCoy adds coolly, "knows said Vulcan better than Spock knows himself, is _precisely_ aware of the weaknesses and strengths of the being who seemingly is all but attached at the hip to his human captain. Add to this," and the doctor shoots him a glare of pure death over the top of a medical scanner, "that by the time we beamed down there Spock was about two hours from dying outright from sheer hormonal adrenaline overdose, out of his mind with the blood-fever, severely dehydrated, and weakened from eight days of malnutrition and insomnia. We even talked about it before the challenge began, Jim! Spock would never have stood up to Stonn for longer than ten minutes, and we both knew it."

"And you draw from these facts, that I decided to let Spock kill me?" he asks directly when McCoy is finished.

"Unless you have an explanation to the contrary, Captain, then yes; I believe you saw it as the best way out – the only win in a no-win situation. Your command was already jeopardized, and you've never been able to tolerate the thought of anything happening to Spock. You could have taken him out by fighting dirty and with just a bit of effort, Jim, and we both know it." McCoy's voice has lost its animosity, regret and sadness replacing the former quality, and he can't stand the change any more than he can look the man in the eye right now. "You could have killed him, and he probably would have thanked you for the release from the blood-fever. Yet you let him choke you to death, because you were fighting _de_fensively instead of offensively."

He is silent, for he cannot in good faith deny it, not all of it at least. While he had no intention of killing Spock, neither did he intend to die as he had; he had simply seen no solution open to him and in consequence had not acted with any sort of plan other than to prolong the conflict, without seriously injuring either of them, until he had one. It was pure bad luck that he'd lost his focus enough for Spock to stop the dance they were performing and move in for the kill. Literally.

Shuddering, he rubs his arms absently. He has no idea what to say, what to do, that will help rather than make matters worse; and he's startled when McCoy flings the scanner down on the table in one last fit of anger, and then turns back to meet his gaze.

The physician's eyes are suddenly old, weary – and he can't tell if they're just glassy with exhaustion or if the dear old grump is actually close to crying.

"Bones…"

"Jim…someday you're not gonna have me around with a mini-miracle in my kit to save you or Spock, or maybe both of you." The voice breaks slightly, a small hitch in the last few syllables, and his heart clenches, twists deep within him. "Someday one of you's gonna do somethin' I can't fix, and there's not gonna be anybody who can pick up the pieces for you and put 'em back together."

And in an instant he sees here what's really at the heart of the reaction he's gotten, and he understands it completely. Though it hadn't been in his game plan, he'd basically been willing to die if absolutely necessary so that Spock could live, and he hadn't given Bones a second thought, hadn't thought about what it would mean to him to watch him die at the hand of their closest friend, insanity or not. Hadn't thought about the fact that yet again he and Spock were leaving Bones behind in their plans and actions, without even thinking of their consequences on the best friend both of them had.

And now the poor guy was scared that next time there wouldn't _be_ any pieces to pick up, that he'd _really_ be alone at the end, knowing he couldn't do anything due to his COs' foolishness.

His arms are still stiff from the minor miracle Bones gave him, but not stiff enough that he can't lift them and, throwing propriety and decorum out the airlock, hugs his CMO – his friend – as hard as he can, murmuring insanities into the blue-veloured shoulder as he does, trying in desperation to say he's sorry and knowing he's miserably failing.

They're both sniffling (that sparkly dust from Vulcan's surface coats everything, of course) when they jump away from each other, as the comm screeches that Spock is on his way down to Sickbay.

He watches as Bones drags his sleeve across his eyes, and then the physician begins to grin, slowly and evilly.

"…Bones?"

The grin is a smirk now, and he's just a little afraid of what it indicates – then he realizes, and he gapes at his friend. "He doesn't _know_?"

"_Nobody_ knows, Captain," is the retort, and he can hear Bones's accent become more pronounced as he relaxes visibly from the trembling tension of the last few minutes. "I didn't feel it necessareh that the whole ship knows its First Officer just tried to choke his captain to death, did you?"

"You mean Spock thinks he really _did_ kill me?"

"Mmhm," the physician replies, smirking. "And now you're gonna keep your backside sittin' in that bed, Captain, until I've had a bit of fun."

"But –"

"Sit," McCoy growls, and he knows better than to disobey if he wishes to remain forgiven for his thoughtless stunt. "Serves you both right for puttin' this gray in my hair," the man tosses grumpily over his shoulder as he leaves. "Fool idiots, the both of you... NURSE!"

He hears Chapel's hasty steps outside as the bellow rattles the instrument-trays, and sits back with a sigh. He and Spock have some talking to do, of course – lots of it – but he sees now that he is going to have to spend some quality time with his CMO in the near future, so that McCoy does not feel excluded from the special something he and Spock share. Bones deserves better than he's gotten in the past, because he's not just someone who excels at picking up the pieces; he is a friend, a darn good one and a far too patient one, and he's been understated and excluded without either of them meaning to do so.

Perhaps he and Spock should take it up as a personal effort, to include the physician more in their conversation and activities.

After all, they both owe him everything now.


	39. When I Fall

**Title**: When I Fall  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, bit of McCoy  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 4544  
**Warnings**: Characterization liberties like whoa, given that it's a meme fill. Something doesn't ring quite right with my TOS muse, so I suppose it's a cross between Reboot and OS. Very little editing because again, trying to finish up WIPs here. And it's a meme fill, so it's just for the fun of it anyhow. ^_^  
**Summary**: For **dante_s_hell**'s LiveJournal **Kirk H/C Meme**, the prompt being _Kirk becomes claustrophobic after the last mission, but just thinks it's like leftover anxiety that'll go away on its own so doesn't think anything of it, until he gets a panic attack doing something really mundane, like going through a jeffries tube or something_.

* * *

Of all the times and places for his psyche to twist itself into knots, the middle of a yellow alert doesn't even rank in the top one hundred.

And if there's one thing he hates more than a danger to his ship, it's a danger that pops up without warning. Like the unexpected glitch in the turbolift programming this morning, causing enough lift jams that Engineer Scott had to take all the lifts off-line to reroute wiring. Like the fact that Spock's and his chess game had been interrupted by one of the selectors in Rec Room Two deciding to regurgitate its entire stock of replicatable matter onto the nearest four tables. Like the fact that he'd hardly changed his shirt when the deflector shields snapped on and a yellow alert sounded – some unknown radiation from asteroid field that their sensors had just picked up.

Like the fact that he's supposed to be on the Bridge in a crisis, and instead he's now clinging tightly to a ladder in the main turboshaft, sweating buckets and unable to force his body to obey his screaming will.

He is James T. Kirk, the captain of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_. He's had all the training the 'Fleet can throw at him, and enough horrific experience to match. He has the best crew in the galaxy, the fastest ship in the Federation, and the most level-headed First Officer in the 'Fleet to counterbalance his impulsiveness. There's not an advanced race in the galaxy that hasn't heard of him, and very few who don't fear the name _Enterprise_ and at least respect her captain.

And yet, he's clutching the rungs of the turboshaft ladder, red emergency lights glowing ghostly over his white knuckles, and he's just praying he won't hyperventilate and embarrass himself to any crewman who thinks to wonder where his captain is and goes to search for him.

He knows it's utterly ridiculous to think – even believe, in scattered fragments of time – that the walls of the darkened shaft are closing in on either side of him, inexorably and consistently shrinking the amount of space left around him, eating up the oxygen left, imprisoning him with no way of escape; and yet he can't stop himself from cringing against the ladder, clinging to the only solid thing in his universe right now, and hoping against hope that it'll be Bones and not Spock that realizes he's taking too long to get to the Bridge.

Fear and phobias are _illogical_ and he knows it darn well, but he really, _really_ doesn't want to hear that right now.

The walls thrum around him with the pulsating rhythm of his ship's warp engines; they haven't even slowed pace. The yellow alert isn't sounding anymore, so the threat must be over as quickly as it had appeared, and he's grateful more than he can say that nothing happened to his Lady while he's cowering like a frightened child in a deserted turboshaft.

He vaguely hears Spock's voice over the ship-wide comm, asking him to report to the Bridge, and he's not sure whether to be petrified that someone's going to find him or to hope someone will, _soon_. Either way, he's going to have to move sometime.

But he can't.

If he even moves a finger, much less a hand, the walls will close faster than they already are, and he'll fall; there's no doubt in his mind that he will. The emergency forcefields might catch him and stop him from hitting the bottom of the shaft, but he'd rather hit bottom than be trapped in this darkness for undetermined hours, deprived of all knowledge and sense and _control_.

His worst nightmares are of being utterly alone, and they've only gotten worse since the encounter with Tristan Adams on the Tantalus penal colony. Those hours – or minutes, were they? He doesn't know, and doesn't want to know – spent in that chair, that place, with his mind carefully blanked and so unbearably _alone_, still haunt him even a year after the fact.

Their most recent mission didn't help, obviously, and all this is compounded with the complete darkness of the shaft, other than a softly-pulsating emergency light far, far overhead. He's quite aware that he's approaching at a breakneck speed a mild panic attack that could, if Starfleet ever found out, cost him his command.

He's never liked darkness, but he knows he's too old to be frightened of it. He is not scared of the dark, or of loneliness, or of small and enclosed spaces, even if they do resurrect the undead memories of those six days spent in that underground cell with its slick, dark stone walls, without light or sound or dignity or anything else that keeps a man sane, until Spock and Chekov had managed to pinpoint his captor's energy patterns and rescue him just before he went mad from sheer sensory deprivation –

He's _not_ afraid of the dark, or of enclosed spaces. He is not.

Too bad someone forgot to tell his retrogressive memory that.

Has the shaft gotten even smaller since he first fell under the onslaught of claustrophobic sensation? He isn't sure, and he sure isn't going to look around to find out. A clanging noise far above him causes him to jump, and one of his hands loosens from the ladder just enough to throw him into a startled panic. He grips the sides of the ladder with both hands, mashing his forehead against the cool tritanium, careless that the rung will leave a bruise if he does not stop, and tries to remember what Spock taught him about breathing exercises.

It doesn't work.

The reddish haze from the emergency lights brightens as the shields snap off, returning all systems to normal power, and he can see the outlines of the walls now – but it doesn't help. They are still closing in, mocking his inability to move, to conquer the unreasonable feeling that he's going to let go and fall, again –

The nausea that churns in his stomach suddenly makes the leap into his throat when he hears a brisk tap-tapping of Starfleet-issue boots coming from below him on the ladder.

Someone's on his way up to the Bridge, and whoever the unlucky crewman is is going to stumble across his captain, petrified and about to lose his reconstituted breakfast all over the wall of the turboshaft.

He closes his eyes, lowers his head again against the cool metal of the ladder, and concentrates on keeping his gag reflex under control and/or stopping his teeth from chattering. Even being thoroughly mortified by being discovered at least means he'll get help of some kind.

Whatever he was expecting when the brisk tapping draws closer, whatever he was bracing himself to hear, it definitely wasn't the calm baritone of his First Officer, nor was he expecting the sensation of a firm hand closing cautiously around the ankle of his left uniform boot.

"Captain?"

His mind recognizes and almost hysterically welcomes the aid for what it is, even if he still can't quite control his shivering, but getting his voice to work is something else.

"Captain, are you all right?"

_No!_ his mind screams – or whimpers, he's not sure what's the difference anymore – but his mouth will barely form a word. "Spock," he finally manages, and he could weep with gratitude that it's not an octave shrill with terror nor is it stuttering with panic, as he had half-expected it to be.

Nevertheless, his Vulcan friend is far too observant and has Vulcan hearing, and he barely has time to register swift movement before he's gently pushed and slid an inch or two to his right and a slim boot wriggles into place beside his. A presence swings up beside him with fluid grace that he would kill to possess right now. He doesn't dare open his eyes from where they're pressed tightly against his hands.

He doesn't realize how cold he really is, or how badly he's trembling, until a tentative and inhumanly warm hand settles on his shoulder, after hovering a moment like a butterfly debating where to land.

The sudden tightening of the grip is matched by an intake of breath, and he knows any hope of hiding his shame and unreasonable fear has just been shot to pieces.

"Jim," and the simple word washes over him like a sweet, warm wave of Calm, despite the fact that the knots in his stomach tighten as he cracks an eye open to see the all-too-close walls of the lift shaft. "Permit me to call Dr. McCoy?"

"No," he manages through clenched teeth, and his grip on the rung tightens enough that his already aching hands feel a numbing stab of pain. "Won't…change anything."

Silence, a very loud one, and he shivers again, trying desperately to keep his clammy breathing regulated and his emotions dampened so as to not broadcast his irrationality at his telepathic friend.

The hand leaves his shoulder, but he can still feel Spock pressed against him in the darkness, clinging as he is to the narrow ladder. He's half-anticipating a scientific inquiry as to the origins of his recently-resurrected phobia, but the other half of him relaxes just a minute fraction when he realizes Spock isn't going to do anything of the kind. His First is more human than he lets on sometimes, and as he presses his forehead against the cold ladder-rung he's glad this is one of them.

"Captain, the ship is in no danger," Spock informs him quietly, and he wonders how a professedly unemotional being can make such mundane information as ship's business sound so soothing. "Merely a fluctuation in M-16 wave readings that temporarily caused an error in our sensor calibrations. We are still on course for Starbase Thirty-seven."

He doesn't say anything, because he's afraid if he does then it'll come out as an inarticulate cry for help, because no matter how glad he is to see Spock he's still trapped in a dark shaft, with only his own hands protecting him from falling down, as he had those three times he attempted to escape that underground prison, scaling the sheer rock face in utter darkness only to have his precarious handholds break and crumble, sending him plummeting back to the stone floor…

He expects the Vulcan to inquire as to how he can aid his captain, or to coax him gently up to the next level of the shaft (Deck Four; Spock must have known where he was and had worked his way out through Deck Three's Jefferies Tubes and come up underneath him).

What he doesn't expect, and what nearly breaks the thin shield he's hiding his panic behind, is for Spock to hesitate a fractional second, and then without a word swing up and around behind him on the ladder (what the heck?). The Vulcan plants his boots firmly on either side of him as he huddles against the rungs, and threads thin arms through his rigidly clenching ones until he too grips the ladder before them, hands barely brushing his own. He can feel the warmth hovering against the sides of his head, just brushing his hair as he tries futilely to take a deep breath without shuddering, forehead resting in exhaustion against his aching hands.

Now he's sandwiched securely between his Vulcan First Officer and a turbolift ladder (and all he can think at the moment is _this is so beyond awkward_), and he's not sure if he's really laughing or he's just shaking so hard it seems like it or he's actually crying instead of laughing or maybe parts of all three.

"You will not fall, Jim," the voice is gentle, low, and entirely too close to his ear. _Very_ awkward.

…And how did he know about the falling, anyway? The report he'd filed had only been bare skeleton in describing those hellish days, and even McCoy's medical report had only documented the bones he'd broken in his three separate tumbles. Nobody knew how terrified he'd become of falling into darkness, not even McCoy during his psych evals. The nosy Vulcan's deductions from the injury reports are too accurate, too close for comfort this time.

No pun intended.

Strangely enough, though, the awkward position does help a bit; he knows Spock's more than capable of holding his weight so even if he does let go he won't fall. If only he could make himself _believe_ what he already _knows_!

Maybe it's the unnatural warmth at his back, or maybe just because he's utterly terrified and he knows how idiotic it is to be so and he's angry about it; but whatever the cause, a shudder runs through him and he rubs his forehead and nose restlessly against his clammy hands, breathing out slowly.

"You cannot remain here, Captain," is the next thing to break the silence, and despite the voice being just a low murmur in his ear he starts, jerks his head up and narrowly avoids cracking his First in the forehead.

He wants to joke about it, tease Spock about stating the obvious and ask him what logic recommends to fix the problem, but the only sound he appears to be capable of making is an embarrassingly small whimper, which (thank heaven) is almost too quiet for even him to hear.

But Spock hears it, and more importantly hears the helpless plea buried inside it; and the next thing he's aware of is the grip around him tightening and one hand moving from the ladder-rung toward his face. The intent is obvious, as is the clear pause for his barely-breathed permission, and the instant he gulps an affirmative he feels the press of warm fingers in position on his face, and he steels himself for the sensation of falling into another's mind.

But he feels nothing of the kind; more of a soft, fuzzy glow that slowly coalesces into a brightly-lit, starlit evening. He can see the constellations of the Gamma Quadrant overhead peeping through a purpling sunset-sky, and after wondering briefly what the heck Spock thinks he's doing, he takes a look around.

He's standing on a ledge, halfway up a familiar burnt-orange-and-crimson rock formation; Gamma Boralis III, a shore leave planet from over three years ago, where he'd wheedled a very reluctant Chief Science Officer from his science laboratory on a spelunking expedition. Spock had, in his own Vulcan way, pitched a hissy fit about being dragged from his scanners and microscopes and spectrodictalygraphs; but he'd always known he could get anything out of his soft-hearted (no, really, the whole I-am-Vulcan, hear-my-logic thing was a façade to end all facades) exec he wanted, with the proper coaxing, and he'd taken advantage of that power without a trace of shame.

They had spent a magnificent forty-eight hours exploring the upper slopes of the Boralis Magnus Range, cautiously feeling each other's interests out and growing to slowly understand each other better. James Kirk had only been captain for a year at the time, and in that twelve-month had charmed his way into nearly everyone's heart except his aloof First.

That changed, on Gamma Boralis III, and they both knew it.

Now he smiles into the dusk, although some part of his mind that's outside the world created by his First just now is screaming at him that he should be terrified, not nostalgic. He turns to see the Vulcan in question waiting patiently for him at the other edge of the ledge on which they stand.

Spock gives him one of those eyebrow-smiles, and glances pointedly upward at the handholds in the ochre-hued rock face.

"Climb, Captain."

He pops a lazy smirk, able to do so in this world much more easily than he could in life due to respect for Spock's emotional distance, and responds playfully as he had those years ago. "Giving your captain orders, Commander?"

A familiar eyebrow arches, but instead of audible words he receives a vague sensation of slightly-embarrassed pride. What was that?

"In those early years, Captain," Spock begins to answer aloud his unspoken question, nudging him to place a hand upon the rock face, "you persistently referred to me and considered me, both before crewmen and before strangers, to be a full Commander, when in reality I was merely a Lieutenant-Commander."

He remembers well the battle he waged with Starfleet for over a year, over making Spock a full Commander due to his position on the _Enterprise_. The Admiralty had not viewed the Vulcan as more than a brilliant scientist; and Captain Pike's refusal to place Spock in command after one initially disastrous away mission had given him no command experience.

It had taken over three months for Spock to admit to Kirk that he did wish to know how to lead humans; he simply did not desire to do so in a captaincy; and soon after, the new captain of the _Enterprise_ had begun giving his First command duties and, for lack of a better word, coaching him in his ability to command both humans, and respect _from_ said humans.

And due to that, Kirk had worn down the Admiralty's decisions one by one, overruling their objections and overturning opinions until, nearly two years into the mission, Spock had finally been recognized as a full Commander by Starfleet Command. It had been a hard battle, and an unpleasant one at times, for both of them, but he would always look back on that day with pride.

Apparently, from the embarrassment he senses now from his First, so would Spock – and judging from the hasty way in which the remembrance is dissipating on the Vulcan's end, the memory also means a great deal to his friend and as such falls under the category of 'unacceptable human emotion.'

He hides a smile against the unyielding coolness of the rock face, even though he knows Spock can sense his amusement in a meld, and then suddenly he realizes that he's already twelve feet off the ground, having climbed the craggy formation without realizing it while lost in memory.

Then he remembers that this isn't real, and that he's actually caught in a partially-darkened turbolift on the _Enterprise_; and the scene around him begins to tremble as if an earthquake is shaking the planet, the sky rips and tears, letting in tiny pockets of inky, crimson-streaked blackness, and a boulder goes rolling down the side of the cliff face next to his head, and –

A hand closes around his ankle from below, and the wavering sky shimmers and reforms, solid and opaque above him, alien-beautiful and complete. The ground ceases to quake, one rippling tremor ending the threat of danger.

"_Focus_, Captain." Spock's voice floats up from below, and he knows only in a mental joining could so much open anxiety seep through the simple words. It's a rare gift, these instances when he can see the humanity buried beneath the necessity of Vulcan training, and he treasures the memories as if they were members of an endangered species. "Be at peace, Jim. No harm can occur here unless I permit it, and I assure you I have no intention of doing so."

"Right," he breathes slowly, and though part of him still knows that this isn't real he can deal with it now.

He climbs.

For a few minutes, he becomes one with the rock face; this is something he loves, has always loved, and though his mind vaguely registers there's a reason he shouldn't love it so much anymore he isn't given enough time to really think about it. He hauls himself up foot by foot, boots scrabbling slightly for the nearly-invisible holds that challenge his strength and equilibrium, and he's just starting to relax a bit when apparently from nowhere he espys the yawning mouth of a cave in the side of the rock face.

Shivering, he turns his attention back toward the rock before him, admiring the melon-hued quartz-like crystals that line a streak in the craggy surface, and pretends the cave isn't there.

Unfortunately, Spock has obviously seen the entrance too, and gives him a mental nudge back that direction.

"I've never been a fan of caves, Spock," he tosses down to the thin figure climbing lithely below him, hoping his easy bravado will mask the genuine stomach-churning fear of enclosed spaces that flits elusively at the edges of his consciousness. "Let's pass on that one."

Spock either doesn't hear his reluctance, or just ignores it, and looks calmly up at him, expression inscrutable as ever. "It is necessary, Captain."

"Like heck it is," he mutters, and aims his next handholds to skirt well away from the yawning entrance.

A minute later he shoots a scowl back at the placid Vulcan, for the cave has now switched positions and is directly above him, no matter how much he moves away. "Spock, I don't find that funny," he snaps irritably, clinging to the small ledge his hands have gripped. He needs to catch his breath, partly because he knows if he has to go in there he's probably not going to remain perfectly calm.

"Nor do I, Captain," is the serious reply, and Spock is wriggling up the rock face next to him. "But it is necessary, to escape this place. Would you prefer I go first?"

He wants to argue, but Spock's thoughts can't be hidden in a meld like this and so he recognizes that what the Vulcan says is true; somehow going through the cave will get him out of this whole mess, and he's not about to let his friend enter a dangerous place before him.

"No," he grunts, and hauls himself up onto the ledge outside the yawning entrance, inky as a black hole and looking just as eager to swallow him up.

He can feel Spock's pride and – dare he think it, in a shared thought zone like this? – even affection, as the Vulcan scrambles up behind him.

He hesitates, staring into the mouth of the cave, for he cannot even see the walls of it beyond the shadow-line where the sunset light fades into reddish-black darkness, and feels his bravado vanish as the light is from view.

"It is not a large cave, Jim," Spock's cool voice washes over him as he takes one hesitant crawl into the entrance. "A few meters of passage, and then we shall be out the other side."

He nods, knowing better than to trust his voice, and feels Spock's approval sweep over and around him as he rubs a hand over his damp forehead and then begins to move, ignoring the nausea crawling up from his stomach. He knows he has to get over this, and he knows there's really no reason to fear anything that exists in Spock's mind, so why then can't he just relax? He's never been claustrophobic before, not really, and why should one mission trigger such an unnatural fear in him?

"It is not unnatural, Captain," Spock's voice bounces off a wall close by him as he crawls, thinking, and suddenly he doesn't feel as much in the dark. "In fact, your actions while in that captivity were quite remarkable, I might say incredible. Any resulting trauma from them is only to be expected."

He realizes, probably too late, that if he can see some of Spock's thoughts then no doubt Spock can see his; he probably knows everything that went on during those days spent in that prison; his unsuccessful attempts to escape, his despair at never being found, the one night where he almost broke down in tears but refused to because he clung to the hope of being found and didn't want to be found bawling his eyes out like a child just because his broken arm hurt…

Wonderful.

His disgruntled thoughts are broken lightly by a ripple of amusement from his spelunking companion. "Why should you be embarrassed over your actions, Captain?" Spock asks, and he feels genuine bepuzzlement coming from the Vulcan.

"Possibly because I gave up hope of being rescued there at the end, Spock, and I couldn't do anything to get myself out of that hell-hole," he mutters, and crawls faster, as if he can escape the shameful memory by increasing his speed.

"Captain," and the voice has an edge of stern, I-should-smack-you-you-illogical-human tone in it, "the first time you fell, attempting to scale the sheer rock face of your lightless prison, you broke two ribs. The second time, you broke your left humerus. I fail to see how making a third attempt in that condition is something to be ashamed of."

Well, when you put it like that…

"Yeah, but now I can't even go through a Jefferies tube without freaking out," he mutters into the cool stone below his crawling hands.

He jumps, banging his head on the low wall of the tunnel (he dimly registers that it's nice how Spock eliminates the pain from a rocky headslam), when a small, delicate sound flutters over his thoughts, wrapping around them and warming the air.

Spock is _laughing_.

He isn't sure whether to be thoroughly freaked out, scared out of his skin, or absolutely in love with the sound (maybe all three), but he stops for a second.

"Explanation?" he finally manages, and hopes that if Spock is going insane that he won't stay trapped in a schizophrenic Vulcan's mind forever.

A ripple of amusement dissipates that half-coherent thought. "Keep moving, Captain. Only a few more meters yet to travel."

"What were you laughing at?" he asks again. The thought of getting out of here soon is relaxing, and he can feel himself growing calmer, more confident, as he nears the end of the tunnel – he can't see any light, but somehow he knows he's almost there.

Spock's answer is lost in the loud bang as his head runs into something hard and unyielding. There is no pain, but his yelp is an instinctive reaction, as well as his sudden knowledge to push against the blockage.

When he tumbles gracelessly out into a well-lit corridor and is caught and steadied by a worried Bones and two security guards, he realizes why Spock was laughing at him.

He _was_ crawling through a Jefferies tube, and _not_ freaking out.

"Glad you found him, Spock," McCoy tosses over his shoulder, while checking him over unobtrusively with his eyes. "You all right, Jim? We were worried when you didn't respond to the alert."

"I'm fine," he replies simply, and means it. He dismisses the two Security men, and turns to grin at the dark head that emerges from the small opening, expression as calm and self-satisfied as ever.

Spock somehow manages to materialize from the Jefferies tube with catlike grace, and gives him a small nod; somehow he knows that's all the words that are necessary between them.

And as he falls into step safely between his friends, he shoots one last look back at the closed tube hatch, grateful beyond belief for what he's overcome today. Spock glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and though the Vulcan's face remains expressionless he would swear he can feel the mental equivalent of a smile tickling the back of his mind.


	40. Comfortable

**Title**: Comfortable  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 400  
**Summary**: Pure fluff, random idea for the prompt of _sleepy_, random execution of said idea. The whole purring thing is totally fanon, to my knowledge; at least it's never mentioned in the TOS or TNG canon despite the fact that the fandom is swamped with the myth.

* * *

James Kirk will always remember the watershed that finally showed him more clearly than words that he'd been accepted at last by the uniquely brilliant individual whom he had inherited as First Officer. For months he had painstakingly stoked the flickering ember of friendship, kindled it with care and patience, and for a year he'd attempted to prove to himself and his superiors that he was deserving of the ship and magnificent crew he'd been given.

Spock was a hard nut to crack, though he enjoyed the challenge, and so he had never truly known what the stiffly-proper Vulcan thought of him personally or of his command; asking outright smacked of immaturity, and he wasn't that desperate. Spock's rigidity barely shifted in his presence under most circumstances, and he had begun to think that the Vulcan would _never_ relax around even him.

Then came this stopover at Starbase Fourteen, where he and his First were delayed by Command with classified instructions while the _Enterprise _made a supply run to a nearby planetoid. They were to rendezvous with her by shuttlecraft, and the take-off had been uneventful, the two-hour flight peaceful and even calming.

Now, they are fifteen minutes from the rendezvous when he suddenly registers that their conversation has dwindled unusually low, even for them – and he turns in his seat to look at his co-pilot (though by now neither of them are piloting; the computer can handle a reunion with the ship on its own). Then his hand promptly flies to his mouth to keep from laughing at the sheer adorableness of it.

Spock is fast asleep.

Stiffly upright (perfectly postured even in a nap, he sees with amusement), Spock is breathing heavily, dark lashes spread evenly over his too-pale skin; and no wonder, because the last two months have been grueling for all of them but his exec especially. They hadn't even gotten shore leave at the Starbase, and he knows his First has pushed himself far too harshly of late to keep the _Enterprise _beyond-functional.

The Vulcan is obviously relaxed enough in his presence to permit himself a _nap_ during the trip, and the gesture of trust warms his heart more than any trite words of companionship ever could.

He smiles, and turns his attention back to the console before him.

But just wait until he gets back and tells Bones that Vulcans don't snore, they _purr_…


	41. Count on Me

**Title**: Count on Me  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 323 (too lazy to cut it down, yes)  
**Warning/Spoilers**: Immediately pre-_Enterprise Incident_. Spoilers for that episode.

* * *

Kirk finally whirls from his restless pacing, face twisted into that particular expression that indicates unhappy obedience to a distasteful duty, and tightly folds his arms in an unconscious gesture of self-defense.

"You do understand what you're getting into, Commander?" The usage of his title and not his name, as is the human's wont when they are alone, betrays more than anything else the tense state the man's nerves are in. "If we fail, the Federation will disavow any knowledge of our actions, we'll go down in history as traitors, and most likely we'll be _dead_."

He is silent, for no answer is sufficient at the moment.

"And if we succeed," and Kirk snorts a mirthless laugh, "we'll probably be either dead or close to it, we'll have compromised any moral code we possess, and we'll never get recognition for our sacrifices. Is that something you're really willing to do, Mr. Spock? Risk the ship and your position aboard her, your very life even, over this idiocy of a covert mission for a Federation that doesn't even begin to grasp the risks involved?"

"If I decline," he answers slowly, gently, for he can sense the solitary pain the human is radiating (and yet the captain is unselfishly promising to find some way to allow him to refuse the mission they have been given so ruthlessly), "…if I decline, you will perform it alone, will you not?"

Kirk looks away, ashamed. "I have no choice," he snarls bitterly.

He intentionally steps into the human's personal space. "Then I believe my response is, as you humans would put it…count me in."

Kirk has not retreated from his supportive advance, which is an improvement over the last hour's argument, and now looks at him in a mixture of fond sadness, eyes soft.

"No, Mr. Spock," the captain responds after a moment, his features finally relaxing into a half-smile. "The correct phrase is 'you can count on me'."


	42. Cuddling Is Logical

**Title**: Cuddling Is Logical  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk POV, Chapel cameo  
**Rating**: so very K. Yayz for platonic cuddling.  
**Word Count**: exactly 500  
**Genre**: H/C, Humor, Gen  
**Summary**: My entry for the _Cuddling for warmth/Snowed in _space on my LiveJournal **hc_bingo** card.

* * *

When his Chief Science and Chief Medical Officers had requested the use of a shuttle to study the 'fascinating' planet below (an ice-bound, consistently frigid from pole-to-pole sphere where, inexplicably, a peculiar chrystalline plant life had developed), he was slightly surprised, but granted permission for the two to take the shuttle planet-ward.

When McCoy and Spock exited the Bridge, talking excitedly (as excitedly as a Vulcan could be, anyway) about experimental breeding procedures and medical discoveries and a dozen other things that went completely over his head – all without so much as a single exchanged insult or expletive – he only shook his head in wonder at the miracles of the universe.

When the _Galileo II_ disappeared from their scanners, only to reappear as a terrifying blip as it crash-landed on the planet's surface, he broke the inter-communications switch on his chair's armrest, telling Scotty to boost transporter power immediately to retrieve the two (they were alive, they could tell that much from scans, though no one knew in what condition).

When the transporter malfunctioned halfway through the attempted beam-down of thermal equipment, he should not have been surprised (this happened far too often aboard this ship in particular), but still took his anger out on the wall of the turbolift on his way down to Shuttle Bay Two.

When Chapel met him there with a business-like nod, an emergency response team, and a painkiller for his bruised knuckles, he knew she'd been trained far too well by the human stranded below with only a Vulcan and a small emergency kit for company, in a sub-zero world full of unknowns.

When the Bridge reported two life-signs fading steadily as they battled their way through the planet's ice-particled atmosphere and across snow-crusted glaciers, he only held his breath and prayed to any deity within the hearing distance of the quadrant that Vulcan strength and Southern stubbornness would be enough to keep his two friends alive until they could locate them.

When they reached the debris-strewn site of the decimated shuttle and followed the obviously-laid trail to a nearby crevice in the ice, he purposely refrained from speculating as to what they would find and in what condition, and only the cloud of fog that appeared as he exhaled upon locating them showed the immensity of his sigh of relief.

When the only words they got out of either as they pried the two of them apart were a slurred "Quit hoggin' the blankets, hobgoblin," from McCoy, he found out the hard way that on this world tears – from laughter or relief, they were all the same to the temperature – froze to his face within five seconds.

When both of them (unsuccessfully) denied the entire scenario, he didn't need anything but Chapel's witness (and her deviously-snapped holopics) to prove that Vulcans consider cuddling to be _logical_ under the right circumstances.


	43. Destiny

**Title**: Destiny  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 900  
**Warnings**: None. Spoilers/references are (in order) _The Gailieo Seven, Mirror Mirror, Trouble with Tribbles, Immunity Syndrome _(all from season two of ST:TOS). Slight speculation on my part.  
**Summary**: My entry for my LiveJournal **hc_bingo card**, prompt of _Loss of job/income _(interpreted as loss of someone _else's _job). Spock decides against taking his own captaincy, for which more than just he is devoutly grateful.

* * *

"It's an incredible honor," he says, and is glad he can speak with sincerity, though not with any warmth. "I told you Command would see it my way someday, Spock."

They are in a deserted corner of Rec Room Four, chessboard between and no one around, and his First has just hesitantly dropped the bombshell that Starfleet Command has offered Spock the captaincy of the _Intrepid_. _Intrepid_ is an all-Vulcan vessel, the most widely-respected Science and Exploration vessel in the galaxy, and such the offer is, as he said, an honor.

Spock has declared more than once that he has no desire to command, though that declaration has become less and less frequently voiced now, after months of (for lack of a better word) coaching from his human captain in the areas of commanding a starship's crew. After one initially disastrous exploratory mission and due to Number One's impeccable leadership capability, Christopher Pike had never given Spock command of another mission; and as such the Vulcan had not been recognized by Starfleet Command as possessing the necessary command prerequisites to be given the rank of full Commander.

Kirk had changed that almost immediately upon assuming captaincy of the _Enterprise_, recognizing the Vulcan's immense, untapped potential and nurturing it with care and painstaking patience. Despite early mishaps like the Murasaki nebula mission, Spock had slowly but certainly flourished under Kirk's training, and almost exactly one year after the captain's taking the _Enterprise_, Command had finally awarded the Vulcan full Commander's stripes.

Now, almost another year later, they are offering Spock his own ship – and the top of the 'Fleet Science vessel, no less.

He knows, he muses somewhat sadly as he aimlessly sends a rook to the third level of the chessboard, that it would be far easier on Spock to serve aboard an all-Vulcan vessel, unplagued by human emotion and inconsistency and all the rest that he must deal with on a daily and constant basis. Spock would be in his element, despite the misgivings he mentions now regarding his mixed heritage and acceptance aboard, and he knows the Vulcan is for the first time seriously considering the offer made by 'Fleet Command.

Knowing Spock would be better off on the _Intrepid_ doesn't lessen the tightness in his chest, or help him concentrate on how badly both of them are playing tonight.

It is Spock, though, and not himself, who finally gives in with an almost human sigh and shoves the board to the side, raising dark eyes to squarely meet his captain's patient hazel.

"Spock, what do _you_ want to do?" he asks, for he truly wishes to know but knows truly that the Vulcan has no idea.

"I…am yet undecided," is the not-unexpected reply, delivered with an almost endearing shyness as they silently agree to postpone the game. "As you said, it is…a most fascinating opportunity, and would certainly be more conducive to my personal habits and culture than remaining aboard an all-human vessel."

"Make sure it's what you want, Spock," is all he can find words to say for a moment, and from the look in Spock's eyes, the clear longing for the atmosphere of serenity his Vulcan half craves, he's already answered his own statement. "You are leaning toward going, aren't you," he states flatly, and hopes the bitterness doesn't show as clearly as he feels it deep in his soul.

"The probability is stronger that direction, yes, Captain," Spock answers calmly, almost infuriatingly so, but he firmly quashes the pang of anger that flares up at the idea of losing this integral part of himself due to duty and cultural differences.

"Well, I'll hate to lose you if you go," and he is surprised the understatement does not choke his voice more than it does, "but it'll be a wonderful chance for you, Spock. They…" no, he most certainly is _not_ going to embarrass Spock by slightly breaking down at the idea, "…they couldn't ask for a better captain."

Spock's eyes soften ever so slightly as he rises, both of them acknowledging the silent need for solitude.

"I can think of one, Jim," is the gentle rejoinder, and if his eyes burn slightly as his soon-to-be-former First leaves the room he doesn't care – about much of _anything_, anymore.

A week later, he and three others are transported to a mirror universe, where he discovers that there really are such things as universal constants – and when Spock is standing there to welcome him home after they return, he wonders if it will remain that – _home_ – for much longer, with a family member missing from the unit.

Two more weeks pass and Spock finally, after being lulled into a more mellow state one evening, informs Kirk that he has no intention of leaving the _Enterprise_or her captain – _ever_, is the vow quite seriously made over a chessboard half-hidden by cooing tribbles.

He smiles, and then grins, and then realizes that his headache has completely vanished, tribbles and Klingons be darned.

Five months later, after they are well away from the energy-draining area surrounding the dead space amoeba and he has painfully come off his stimulant withdrawal, he wakes in Sickbay to find Spock dozing by his bedside – and realization hits him harder than his stimulant withdrawal.

Then he shivers under the thermal blankets, and thanks every deity he can think of that Spock didn't take the captaincy of the _Intrepid_.


	44. In the Night

**Title**: In the Night  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: massively K  
**Word Count**: 655  
**Warnings**: Fluff. Like, enough to choke a horse. Also, slight silliness. So I don't feel well and wanted to cheer myself up. Shoot me. :P Spoilers for _Tholian Web_. Passing mention of _Operation Annihilate_.  
**Summary**: For my hc_bingo card, the _WILD CARD _spot - _Nightmares_. Takes place just after _The Tholian Web_.

* * *

He has always loved the vast, ethereal beauty of Space, a siren song to his blood since the age of four when his preschool class took a field trip to see Saturn's rings. He had fallen in love with the brilliance of light in darkness, life in nothingness, freedom in weightlessness, and that ardor had only intensified as the years passed.

"A starship captain," he had responded promptly to a well-meaning relative one Christmas, when asked what he wanted to be 'when he grew up,' and followed it up quite seriously with "The best one in Starfleet. An' Sam's gonna be my Science Officer, an' we're gonna discover new aliens and awesomeness like that." (Thirteen-year-old George Samuel Kirk had rolled his eyes but was kind enough to agree and spend many hours embellishing the child's enthusiastic plans, which act alone gained him a small hero-worshipper until the day the older man died.)

Now, decades later, he's gained his beautiful ship, and lost his brother. Acquired the space-faring freedom his blood craved – and nearly died today, suffocating all alone in the icy embrace of what had been his first and purest love.

He wakens with a small cry, chest heaving for oxygen that his mind has not yet registered is entering his lungs in far too rapid pants, and for one fractional instant his stomach clenches at the thought that he's still floating in the void of space, running out of air, suffocating, with the Enterprise and all her crew _right there_ before his eyes and yet so unable to rescue him, measuredly calculating his breaths to last just a few minutes longer in the faint hope that someone, _somehow_, can rescue him, slowly asphyxiating in utter darkness –

And then the door to the adjoining bathroom slides open and a slightly disheveled figure barrels into the room, skidding to a halt just inside. The lights brighten automatically upon entrance, sending the darkness shivering back into its corners.

He stares, terror vanishing like wraiths of autumn campfire-smoke into the wind, and finds that he can breathe again – gaining him enough oxygen to the brain to engender the impressively coherent thought _what the heck_, _don't laugh, don't laugh_…

Spock's eyebrows, after relaxing at the sight of him not dying or being sick everywhere or bawling his eyes out or something equally disturbing, almost knit themselves together.

"Captain," he is greeted solemnly, and the urge to giggle outright suddenly makes him grab the pillow and hide his mouth with it. "I had thought you might be in…distress. I see I was in error; my apologies for disturbing you."

He blinks, dumbfounded, as Spock actually yawns then, and scrubs a fist across his right eye – obviously the secondary eyelid isn't doing the job – and the sight of his impeccably elegant First Officer standing there in his pajamas and those ludicrous fuzzy green slippers (Bones's gag gift to him last Christmas), sleepily rubbing his eyes, is so ridiculously _adorable_ that he barely manages to muffle his unmanful squeeing in the pillow.

"Just a bad dream, Spock," he finally chokes out, the terror of asphyxiation entirely forgotten. "I'm fine…sorry I woke you up." He knows Spock didn't sleep while he was trapped in interphase, and the mental and emotional drain on the Vulcan was obvious even to McCoy earlier this evening.

"Do not apologize for what you cannot control, Captain," is the sleepy admonishment, and his smile creeps into a grin as the end trails off into another enormous yawn. "If you will excuse me…?"

"Sure, sure…and thanks, Spock," he manages to say with a straight face, and the Vulcan nods solemnly before retreating through the doorway.

The door slides shut behind his amazing, loyal, brilliant, incredible, and adorably sleepy First, and he gives in to the urge to cackle hysterically into his blankets.

Who knew that a Vulcan could get a worse case of bedhead than any human he'd ever seen?


	45. Underestimated

**Title**: Underestimated  
**Characters**: Spock, Scotty  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 100  
**Summary/Warnings**: Set pre-_Where No Man Has Gone Before_. Speculation as to the TOS canon; I personally like to think (and intend to explore this idea through some fanfiction eventually) that Scotty was on the _Enterprise _during Pike's captaincy as well. I have no idea if that's considered c(f?)anon or not, just as there's a lot of speculation as to when McCoy came aboard and so on.

* * *

After their new captain had exited, winking shamelessly and beaming brighter than the nearest pulsar, Montgomery Scott (the only current senior officer who had known him before the captaincy turnover; as such the only crewman save Captain Kirk who did not slightly mistrust him) cautiously cast him an amused eye.

"How long has it –"

"Nine years, four months, and seventeen days."

"Ouch." Scott grinned. "The lad has more brainpower than ye'd think from the rumors, eh?"

"Indeed. Rumors, Mr. Scott, are rarely accurate."

Including the one that said no human could ever beat a Vulcan in chess, apparently.

_Fascinating_.


	46. Comfort Food

**Title: **Comfort Food  
**Characters**: Spock, Scotty, bit of kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 500  
**Summary/Warnings**: My entry for my hc_bingo card spot of **_Hunger/starvation_**. So yes, it turned more into crack than comfort, but then chocolate is a comfort food and a diet can be torture, right? XD General spoilers for TOS Kirk's eternal weight battle, nothing more specific.

* * *

"Mr. Scott, I am in need of your assistance."

Montgomery Scott knew that particular that-was-an-order-not-a-statement tone of voice by now, and hastily popped up from where he lay below a console in Engineering. "Aye, Mr. Spock?"

"It is a technical matter," Spock clarified, and the CE noticed the tell-tale twitching of an eyebrow indicating what Vulcans refused to call stress, "concerning – Mr. Scott. What 'upgrades,' _exactly_, are you performing?" he inquired, casting a suspicious eye upon the definitely not-regulation-safe fire-resistant plating being fused together around the warp core's secondary output conduit.

"Err…" The engineer hastily kicked what looked suspiciously like a roll of thick tape under the nearest console. "The captain always accepts an explanation of 'plausible deniability'?"

Dark eyes contracted for a moment, and then the matter was obviously dismissed as low on the First Officer's priority list. "We will speak of this later, Mr. Scott," the Vulcan warned.

"As you like, sir," Scott replied affably. "In the meantime?"

"In the meantime, I wish you to perform a very specific reprogramming to the meal selectors in Officers' Mess."

Scott looked at his superior with understandable wariness (the last time he'd had a request like that, it had been from McCoy who wanted grits and brown sugar, and their resident 'Southern gentleman' had complained about their consistency for weeks). "What sort of reprogramming?"

Typically, Spock did not mince words. "I wish you to program a temporary internal override for the captain's meal card."

Scott blinked, processing this.

It didn't take a technological genius to make the connections.

"The Doctor isn't goin' to be happy about it, you know."

"Dr. McCoy's medical advice regarding the captain's eating habits is quite sound, and I agree with his prescription," Spock answered, unruffled. "However, it has been three weeks since the doctor restricted the captain's diet to nothing but healthful foods."

"And?"

"And if the current state of degeneration continues, I may be forced to relieve the captain of command."

Scott stared, incredulous. Truly? Over a lack of dessert? "Because he's emotionally compromised?"

Spock's expression twisted slightly into one of intense discomfort. "Because he is emotionally compromising _the entire Bridge crew_," he clarified wryly.

Scott's laughter reverberated off the humming walls of the Engineering section. "A bit cranky, eh?"

"That, Mr. Scott, is a colossal understatement."

Though Spock was obviously more amused than worried by the entire affair, Scott could tell the request was nonetheless genuine, and was being asked out of affection for his captain. "I'll see what I can do," he promised.

"And I shall accept your explanation of 'plausible deniability'."

"Understood."

* * *

Later that evening, at Kirk's surprised cackle of glee when the selector spit out a slice of German chocolate cake instead of his vegetable medley, two sets of eyes met across the room, approval and amusement in both.

Granted, they both were forced to avoid Sickbay for a week for their own personal safety, but then again that was the price _any_ crewman paid to serve aboard the _Enterprise_…


	47. Priorities

**Title**: Priorities  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: a very fluffy K  
**Word Count**: 1021  
**Summary**: My fill for my **hc_bingo** card spot of _minor illness (cold or allergies)_. Schmoop because I'm tired, cranky, and out of sorts myself, and wanted to inflict it on someone else and have virtual warm fuzzies.

* * *

The twenty-third century and its wonders of technological and medical progression were absolutely _worthless_, in James T. Kirk's opinion, if they had not yet produced a cure for the common cold.

He was sick, plain and simple. Not sick enough to justify lazing in bed and simply being miserable for a few days, and too sick to even feel like holding his aching head up. Not sick enough to beg for sympathy or company, and too sick to care if he looked pathetically lonely sitting alone in Officers' Mess. Not sick enough to have Bones attack him with a hypospray of Vitamin C concentrate, and too sick to tolerate the doctor's well-intended hovering.

Not sick enough to ignore the fact that Spock was spending all his free time with that visiting scientist from the Vulcan Science Academy, and too sick to care if his petulant jealousy was showing in front of his subordinates.

He sneezed into his soup bowl, not caring if the germs were simply getting transferred out for a small shore leave before re-entering his mouth as he mechanically consumed them, and ignored the murmured 'bless you, Captain's that trickled from the surrounding tables.

Solvak was, Kirk had to admit, one of the few Vulcans he had met that he didn't instantly dislike. The guy appeared to truly embrace the ideology of IDIC, and instead of taking the usual disdainful attitude his contemporaries did toward Spock of the _Enterprise_, the scientist appeared to legitimately respect the fact that Spock possessed not only Vulcan intelligence but also the capability to understand human leaps of faith instead of logic. Both elements were crucial to experimental science, and Solvak seemed to realize this, eagerly spending numerous hours in Spock's company comparing notes on the theories they were studying.

Kirk had seen Spock slowly, guardedly, unbend a little under Solvak's easy acceptance as their voyage continued, this leg of which consisted of taking the visiting scientist to his destination, a lecture tour on a new Federation observation colony in the Beta Quadrant. Spock was intrigued by the metaphysical theories being presented, and had gradually eased into spending most of his free time in conversations with Solvak that left the captain – even though the two Vulcans graciously attempted to include him part of the time – completely lost in the mathematical intricacies of relativistic physics.

He'd discreetly excused himself more than once when the two simply forgot he was present, and had finally given up trying to understand or even participate in their conversations. Spock had begged off from seven chess matches, pleading that he would shortly lose the opportunity to avail himself of Solvak's knowledge and information – and who was he to tell his First Officer that he was _going_ to play chess with his _captain_, darn it all, and he could tell Solvak where he could stuff his beautiful companionship and intelligence?

Even sick and miserable, he wasn't that petty.

At least not anywhere but in his own mind.

Solvak was sitting across the room now, eating some disgusting-looking vegetable and mushroom medley and poring over a half-dozen PADDs with the eager attention of Spock.

_His_ Spock.

The throbbing behind his eyes increased as he sneezed for the third time in as many minutes, only repressing the moan that rose with the flare of pain because he would die before making such a pathetic noise in a room containing two Vulcans.

If he'd gotten more than an hour's worth of sleep last night due to an upset stomach and not being able to breathe, he might have been in a better mood. As it stood, he was thoroughly out of sorts, bored, lonely, and more than a little depressed.

He rubbed his gritty eyes, and wondered half-heartedly if finishing the soup was worth the promise of nausea (what medicinal properties did physicians see in chicken noodle anyway?), and should he surrender and ask Bones for something to clear his head for a few hours at least. His sneezing had driven any intelligent companionship away, and his admittedly active temper had finished the job, he knew well.

And if Spock was still going to stay buried in research with his new Vulcan groupie for the rest of the day then he might as well go to bed, anyhow.

A spike of pain through his temples sent him dropping his spoon in resigned despair. Massaging slowly at the ache, he closed his eyes for a moment and sternly told himself to straighten up and _grow_ up, because this was getting ridiculous.

A gentle hand on his back startled him a moment later, sending his already-jumbled thoughts scattering like leaves in an autumn wind. He jumped, opening bleary eyes to the sight of a warm cup being pushed into his hands.

Vulcan herbal tea. It burned like paint thinner, but was in the end more soothing than the richest gourmet cocoa.

He blinked in muddled surprise, and then looked up to the blue-sleeved arm connected to the hand on his shoulder, on up to the dark eyes showing a hidden glint of concern as their owner bent slightly down toward his huddled figure.

"Jim, you are unwell. Please go see Doctor McCoy." Spock's voice was quiet, but the use of his name instead of his title in a crowded place like Officers' Mess warmed him more than the steaming mug in his hands.

He sneezed again, a deep and painful shudder running through him as it seemingly shook the entirety of his insides loose. "Maybe I will," he managed after choking down a mouthful of the awful and yet calming brew. _Better not fight him on it_, he reasoned uneasily, casting a glance at the curious Solvak watching from across the room. _Bad enough he's having to coddle his captain while another Vulcan watches the 'emotional display.' _

Spock's hand abruptly tightened on his shoulder.

Right, touch-telepath.

Oops.

It might have been the strange properties of the herbal tea, but he would swear he could barely hear a faint defiant echo steal gently through his mind.

_Let him watch_.


	48. My Place

**Title**: My Place  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Sarek  
**Rating/Genre**: K, Gen.  
**Word Count**: 2587  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Spoilers for _The Voyage Home, The Search for Spock, _and _The Wrath of Khan_. Title swiped from Spock's words to Sybok in ST:V (so sue me, I loved the god-awful movie. :P)  
**Summary**: The planet Vulcan and Ambassador Sarek owe Kirk and his crew, even if they don't show it overtly. If Starfleet is foolish enough to discharge their youngest Admiral over what he did, then Vulcan's exploratory science vessels are perfectly open to accepting him.  
**Alternate Summary**: Triumvirate puppy-pile. No, really. What, you don't think they were entitled to a little schmoop after all that mess?  
**A/N:** My fill for the exhaustion space on my H/C Bingo Card. Began as introspection and somehow degenerated into brain-melting fluff, I dunno how. Blame _TWOK _for it, I always say; I just watched it trying to get inspired for my startrekbigbang fic and bawled my way through the death scene _yet again_...*sigh*

* * *

For about fifteen glorious minutes, it had been the pure euphoria of triumph.

The clouds had lifted, the probe had departed, George and Gracie were making their way deeper into the 'Bay, his crew was all together and safe after their risky trip, the sun was shining brilliantly, and a 'Fleet shuttle was no doubt on its way to retrieve them all from the slowly-sinking Bird of Prey.

Spock's small wail as he was tackled mischievously into the thrice-detested water (he couldn't help it, but he was just too happy that they had all survived to care if he got a glare of not-quite-pure hatred when the dark head surfaced) was just the crowning moment to what was probably going to be the last pleasant memories he would have for a long while.

It didn't really hit him until they were almost to the landing pad on top of 'Fleet Headquarters, that he had finally risked his career for one of his crew…and lost, this time. He'd gone too far, after so many years of skirting the edge.

_"Kirk, if you go through with this, you'll never sit in the captain's chair again."_

An odd choice of threat, since he was still stuck as an Admiral anyway, but he had heard the unusual implications and realized them. He'd entertained hopes that someday he'd be able to ditch the desk job and return to active duty abroad, but when he gave the order to engage the engines on the _Enterprise_ that evening he'd shot that hope down with one well-aimed blow.

He wouldn't be able to sit in a captain's chair on the _Enterprise_ anyway, now that she had gone up with David and the Genesis experiment, and any other ship wouldn't carry the same weight with him; but the hopelessness still struck him like a bolt from the blue, just before they disembarked from the shuttle.

He was finished in Starfleet. He probably could get his crew off with only minor repercussions, and no one was going to have the guts to even think about touching Spock – but Admiral James Tiberius Kirk was done for. The shuttle door hissed, beginning to open on the smallish crowd waiting outside, and he sighed.

Wet and shivering, but still caught up in the glee of the moment, his crew were still laughing, talking with Dr. Taylor and each other about the parties that were sure to be thrown to Earth's saviors, for they were still that even if they received honorable discharges for their mutinous actions to save their friend and commander.

The others exited first, grinning at the cheers and applause that greeted them and waving at people they recognized, but also formed an impassive ring around the shuttle door; he wanted to hug them all for their continued protectiveness of Spock, uncertain as he still was with his world half-remembered.

Adrenaline was fast leaving his exhausted body, leaving him reeling from the effects of stress, very little sleep for over a week, extremely poor nutrition for that time, and the as-yet unaddressed grief over losing so much (it wasn't like he could properly deal with it on a planet full of Vulcans, could he?). His head spun slightly for a moment as McCoy shot him a wry grin and favored Spock with an eye-roll before climbing down out of the shuttle, but then the world settled back into its normal position.

"After you, captain," a quiet voice spoke just as he braced himself to exit once Spock had.

He half-turned, wide-eyed, for it was the first time the Vulcan had referred to him as such rather than as the admiral Spock had been told he was.

But they didn't have time to discuss the implications of that, unfortunately. His lips twisted in bitter, ironic deprecation. "I'm no one's captain now, Spock. Will never be again; they told me that when I left Earth to come after you," he said. Not accusatory, simply matter-of-fact.

Spock's brows knitted. "I do not understand."

He managed a smile. "You will. Now come on, there's probably a whole host of people waiting to see you."

The applause increased when his head appeared in the doorway of the shuttle (aided quite a bit by his crew, bless them), and for a moment he allowed himself the pleasant glow of knowing that if he were to be demoted for something, he would prefer it come about over something so important as this.

And then Spock appeared close at his shoulder, a half-pace behind and to his left as he always had been, and his crew promptly, proudly, formed a protective ring in front of them, daring anyone in the audience to even _think_ about ruining the moment.

The crowd went silent, stunned, at the sight of the pronounced-dead Captain Spock standing calmly alive and well beside his former commander.

Head aching, Kirk sighed. It was going to be a long evening.

He was glad 'Fleet officials got them settled after a short debriefing into temporary custodial suites before his body finally decided it had had enough and simply shut down, scaring Bones half to death when he couldn't keep his dinner down and half-fainted after being sick in their attached bathroom.

Spock had been whisked away by the Vulcan Embassy, the delegation headed by a grim-faced Sarek, and he had no doubt that his friend was being received like the scientific-miracle-twice-over that he was, while the rest of them were being told very kindly and very sternly that it would be…_unwise_ to leave the Starfleet compound before their tribunal the following morning.

"Not wasting any time about busting us back to Lieutenants, are they?" the physician had groused, though no one heard him complaining about the magnificent dinner they had been provided with.

Kirk himself was too exhausted to care, and after not being able to stomach the majority of the meal in their shared living room area was too sick to even think about what he would do tomorrow other than to get his crew off the hook to the best of his ability.

Understandably, then, he wasn't all that thrilled when Bones poked his head into his bedroom and told him Sarek was here to see him.

He managed, after two attempts, to haul himself to his feet and regain some semblance of dignity, before moving out into the living area of what amounted to a very comfortable jail cell.

Bones looked slightly terrified of the austere ambassador, which was understandable; after the _fal-tor-pan_, he'd been poked and prodded and examined by every Vulcan healer and scientist in the entire Vulcan Science Academy it had seemed like, for he was the first human to ever successfully (and unknowingly) carry a katra and one of the extremely few people to participate in a successful _fal-tor-pan_ in Vulcan's entire centuries-old history, including their folklore and legend.

_Ironic_, Kirk had thought at the time with a twinge of regret that it couldn't have been him – all his life the man had been wary of Vulcans in general and of their telepathic abilities, and now he was regarded as both a curiosity and a scientific wonder, even as a reluctant hero, by that same race he was so leery of.

Right now, though, he had to smile, because the doctor had retreated from the dignified ambassador's scrutiny to the relative safety of talking to Spock, who stood awkwardly just inside the door.

Sarek's eyes flickered briefly when he appeared in the doorway, taking in his disheveled appearance (while he'd thrown on a change of clothing and showered after being sick following dinner, he still probably looked like death itself), and then darkened.

But, true to form, the Vulcan graciously said nothing but a quiet "Admiral," in greeting.

"I'm no admiral any more, Ambassador Sarek," he sighed, not wanting the reminder that tomorrow he'd have no title other than Mister.

The Vulcan's head inclined. "As you wish. I am aware that you and your crew no doubt are exhausted, James, but I do have a matter of some urgency to discuss with you if you will grant me an audience for a few moments only."

"Of course, Ambassador…" The floor tilted dizzily under him, and he hastily groped for the back of the plush sofa before he did something embarrassing like tumbling into a heap at the Vulcan's feet.

"Jim!" Bones's voice from across the room but drawing nearer, tinged with concern.

The grey haze poking around the edges of his vision receded, and he raised a hand in protest before lifting his eyes to Sarek. "I'm fine, Bones. My apologies, Ambassador…it's been a long few days."

"Months," Sarek corrected sternly. "James, sit down."

Rubbing his eyes, he bristled at the fatherly tone. "I'll be perfectly fine, sir."

"No doubt, eventually," was the dry reply. "Nevertheless, to remain upright out of sheer human stubbornness when unsteady on one's feet, suffering from severe mental and physical exhaustion, is not logical."

"Whoever said the human race was logical?" The murmur from across the room was faint as the memory resurfaced, but he heard it anyway, and flicked Spock an amused glance before turning a defiant glare back toward the ambassador.

"You said you had something to discuss with me, sir?" The dismissal was clear, and no diplomat would have been foolish enough to push the issue, much less the most proficient diplomat in the Federation.

Sarek wisely moved on. "I have used whatever sway I may have over the Federation council to plead your case in your absence, Admiral Kirk. I regret to tell you, however, that they will give me no hint of what their verdict will be regarding you; for despite all you have done, your actions do constitute overt insubordination. It is a serious compilation of offences, and given your history of creative interpretation of Starfleet regulations…"

"I was aware of my history when I made my decisions," he replied dryly, wishing now that he'd taken the ambassador's well-meant advice and sat down.

"Your crew most likely will be given only a minor reprimand, however, from what I was able to gather from the council's deliberations," Sarek continued, his expression relaxing slightly.

Relief poured through him like a wave of liquid warmth, pooling in his brain into a happy puddle and draining the tension from his body. The grey haze curled slightly into his vision for a moment, promising uninterrupted sleep if he gave in.

"Jim, please sit down," a voice close to his ear spoke softly. How Spock had sneaked up on him while he was distracted he didn't know, but the open concern and warm brown puppy-eyes he had thrown away his career, his ship, and almost his life to save were hardly fair tactics.

The fact that he was starting to shake slightly from lack of sleep and probably dehydration was also a contributing factor.

He sat, heavily, and only then realized that he had a Vulcan attached leech-like to one arm and a scowling Georgia physician gripping the other.

"Thank you, Ambassador Sarek," he finally said, hoping his weariness didn't show in his voice. "I would not see their careers ruined out of loyalty to myself and your son."

"From what your Montgomery Scott informed me, in quite colorful terms, they seem to consider the risk a worthy one," Sarek told him dryly.

He chuckled, and leaned back into the soft cushions of the couch. "They are a magnificent crew – the best the 'Fleet has ever seen," he agreed with open fondness.

"I reserve my judgment regarding Dr. McCoy on that count," Spock ventured, with uncertain – adorable, really – slyness from beside him.

He threw back his head and laughed until his stomach ached, careless that two Vulcans were watching his borderline-manic emotional display, and for a moment basked in the shocked spluttering emanating from the physician on his other side. It had been far too long…

Finally subsiding into some very embarrassing giggles, he rubbed a hand over his eyes and shook his head. "I'm…sorry, Ambassador," he managed, hiccupping as he swallowed a round of hysteria. "This is welcome news you've brought me, though. Thank you for all you've done for us."

Sarek's face was grave. "The debt which both I and Vulcan owe you, Admiral, Doctor, and your crew, is not even close to being repaid."

Warmth filtered into his fuzzy brain, and not from being sandwiched in between Spock and McCoy (though that was nice too).  
Sarek bowed respectfully, and turned to depart. Spock made no move to follow his father, and he wasn't about to suggest one of his two living hot-water-bottles leave; he was far too comfortable. His eyelids seemed to weigh ten kilos, so hard was it for him to keep them from closing; but it was rude to not say goodbye to the guy who'd been trying to save your hide from the Starfleet tribunal Council…

But the Vulcan paused before the door, and turned, as if only just remembering something. "One additional thing, Admiral," he said.

"Hmm?" McCoy snickered from his other side, and his warm, happy brain belatedly told him his response hadn't been very professional. "I mean, what is it, Ambassador?" he corrected himself, red-faced.

Sarek drew himself up into stiff attention, turning that piercing gaze upon the three squished together on the small reclining sofa. "If your Starfleet should be so foolish as to discharge you from service, James Kirk, then rest assured you will promptly be offered a position as captain aboard one of Vulcan's exploratory science vessels. I will bid you good eve, Admiral, Doctor."

And with a nod to Spock, the ambassador left, leaving him slack-jawed and staring after his retreating figure.

His mushy brain finally pulled itself back into some semblance of order. "Did he just say what I think he said?"

McCoy grunted sleepily. "Who knows. Derned Vulcans never do speak plain Standard."

"If by plain, you mean your usual crude profanity, then I entirely agree, Doctor."

"Who asked you? And gimme one of those afghans, 's not like you need all four of 'em."

"Are you planning on sleeping in this location for the remainder of the night, Doctor?"

"Maybe."

"It is hardly a suitable place for restful repose. The amount of space left on this reclining sofa if we are all three to remain here is less than seven square inches."

"So squoosh together, or don't move in your sleep."

"Vulcans do not move in their sleep."

"Speakin' of which, I think Jim's already out." Something warm and soft draped gently over him, tucked securely around his weary frame in a cocoon of warmth.

He didn't bother to correct them.

A short silence. "Was nice of your father to come here tonight, try to put his mind at rest about the crew. And offer him a ship, to boot."

"'_Nice_'ness had nothing to do with it, Doctor. To repay one's debts is but logical."

"Yeah, sure. And stayin' here the rest of the night to comfort him is, too?"

A small, hesitant expulsion of breath. "I somehow believe…no, I _know_…it is my place, Doctor."

McCoy's voice betrayed his wide smile. "So it is, hobgoblin. So it is."

In the comfortable silence that followed, he smiled, wiggled his toes under the afghan, and gently drifted off.

Sarek's eyebrows the next morning, when he came to fetch the three of them for their tribunal and found them still sound asleep in that position, were a sight to behold.


	49. Retribution

**Title**: Retribution  
**Characters**: Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 3606  
**Warnings**: Angst. Loads of it. Spoilers for episodes _Amok Time _and mainly _The Deadly Years_. Yeah, _that _kind of angst. Indirect references to c(f?)anon Kirk's biggest fears - losing the _Enterprise_, and being alone. Briefly betaed because of lack of time.  
**Summary**: Missing post-_Deadly Years _scene. The scene that I for one was screaming for the episode to have happen, but it didn't.  
**A/N:** This episode ranks up with Plato's Stepchildren as one that literally makes me sick to my stomach to watch, it's that heartbreaking. I just cringe my way through it, and so it's taken me this long to be able to watch it again in preparation for finally tackling this plot bunny (needed a break from the final chapters of my **startrekbigbang** fic).  
Quite possibly my characterization won't agree with general perception, but frankly I can't really do anything but feel sorry for all three of the players in that drama - Kirk, Spock, and the Commodore, who sincerely had the best interests of the crew at heart. I think Stocker truly respected Kirk and really did want to help; Spock did everything in his power to stave off the competency hearing even when logic dictated he should have instigated it long ago; and of course Kirk can't help but break my heart a little at a time, despite what he said to Spock later in the episode. There was a lot of baggage that would linger with that episode, without a scene like this one to prevent it from escalating, in my opinion. This is my attempt to salvage an ugly episode.

* * *

After he has exhausted the possibilities of Sickbay and the Observation Deck, he falls back on the most obvious, and therefore the most overlooked, location for the missing man. His treatment had taken even longer than McCoy had laughingly joked about; his unique physiology had only partially reacted to the initial dosage of adrenaline, and a second had been necessary to revert the aging process. The second dosage had been pure agony.

As a result, he has not been physically or mentally capable of dealing with the ramifications of today's events until now, six hours after the captain had left the Bridge, according to the ship's log. Kirk disappeared just after that, and no one has been able to ascertain where he had gone. But now, with the aid of a tricorder set to the human's unique readings based upon McCoy's most recent scan, he is wasting useless time in wishing he had thought to check the most obvious location first, before searching half the ship only to locate the man just now.

The captain is sitting in his own captain's quarters, in the dark, all alone. He has pulled the cushions from his sleeping area into a small pile on the floor, and is now huddled in the corner where two walls meet, knees drawn up to his chest, silently staring into nothingness.

The situation is odd, but not for one who knows how to read the tiny signs of James T. Kirk's psyche. The man is hiding, from something or someone; the posture and darkness indicate shame, an unwillingness to be seen, and the fact that he disappeared without letting anyone know where he was going indicates that he wished to be left alone.

He sees all this from superior Vulcan vision, as by the time the human looks up to even acknowledge his presence the doors have shut upon the room and plunged it into darkness once more.

But the blackness cannot hide the emotional riptide that threatens his battered mental shields – facades hastily erected to save his sanity after his treatment; he is by no means approaching his normal state – and floods the air around them. Shame, embarrassment, grief, and most prominently a severe, crippling sense of despair – all these flood his mind in the absence of any visual sense to distract them, and for a moment he cannot speak, can only shore up the remnants of his pathetic mental shields so as to perform the purpose for which he entered this room.

"Captain." His voice sounds harsh, far too loud, in the stillness, and yet he had barely spoken above a whisper.

There is no answer from the shadowed corner.

"Lights to five percent," he adds quietly after several moments of silence, and a faint glow then casts bluish shadows across the silver of durasteel furniture. The difference is minute, and yet banishes the total darkness that had previously cloaked the room and its secrets.

He can perceive the outline of the figure sitting motionless in the corner, arms resting on the updrawn knees. Kirk's chin rests upon the topmost arm, his eyes downcast, barely blinking in the faint, chilly glow.

He cannot be certain, in such uncertain conditions and even with Vulcan eyesight, but he strongly suspects the shimmer reflected in the stormy gaze is not merely a trick of the lights.

He is strongly tempted to simply turn and leave, to return and make the attempt again when the human will at least acknowledge his presence. The bitter, spiteful words still ring in his ears, and always will, thanks to his eidetic memory – the captain's banishing him from this place, where he had always felt such complete acceptance as to be too good to be true, the heartbroken, impassioned declaration that he would never again be welcomed here.

But they were not true, and he knows that implicitly. That does not mitigate the pain at their reception, but it does negate the petty urge to make full retribution by never returning to this small haven aboard a ship of humans who had never offered him the full, unconditional love and acceptance this man has.

To leave now would be to tell Jim that he considers the words to be truth, and would destroy any hopes they have of salvaging what had to be the most dangerous mission to their relationship, working and otherwise, that they have undertaken in many months.

He will not give that impression to this exceptional human, and so he stands his ground, silent and unmoving in the silvery darkness.

Finally, he hears a shallow, tremulous expulsion of breath, and the captain's head drops, forehead resting limply upon his arms.

"Captain," he makes the attempt once more, despite seeing no response from the huddled figure, "your crew has expressed concern for your well-being, as you have not been seen since the end of beta shift."

No answer, not even a breath or twitch.

He continues, thankful for the darkness which will hide the fact that his controls are barely holding. "As this reclusivity is atypical behavior for you after a crisis averted, your crew is deeply concerned. Will you not walk the ship as you normally do following a tragedy, to assure them that all is well?"

The plea is more an excuse to coax the human into speaking than anything really ship-related; the _Enterprise_ crew will survive without their captain's brash self-confidence for one night, but the captain himself may not survive the memories he fights at this current moment.

A bitter, angry sound rips through the silence, more of a furious sobbing noise than the sardonic laugh it is meant to be. "Would you have me lie to them, Commander?" he hears the bitter rejoinder slice through the darkness toward him, muffled somewhat in the fabric of the man's sleeves. "All is _not_ well, and I quite frankly don't think they need me to confirm that." The human's voice breaks on the words _need me_, and that tell-tale fact does not escape his notice.

"Your crew does not need your confirmation, sir. They do, however, need _you_." That much is both true, and will function as a reassurance. "To permit your embarrassment over the events of today to affect your routine as captain of this vessel is not an action of the brave man you are." He will not, cannot, call this man a coward, despite the fact that the obvious reason for Kirk's leaving the Bridge so soon is evidence that he is simply embarrassed to face his crew after being seen as senile by many of them. A lesser man might have crumbled under the impact of what has happened, and if this man chooses to leave some of the nightmares to be faced until the next day that is by no means indicative of a lack of bravery. Merely, the presence of common sense.

That bitter laugh breaks the silence once again; it is a most unpleasant sound, and vaguely increases the chill he has not yet overcome since his regression from the aging process.

"Mr. Spock," and the human lifts his head, though he doubts if the man can really see much in such dim lighting, and turns toward the sound of his First's voice, "you needn't be so tactful about calling me the coward I am."

He stands at attention, more of habit than out of true indignation, though there is that as well. "Sir, you are not a coward. You are human," he adds, gently, as the man gives a self-deprecating gesture of defiance, "but you are not a coward. There is a considerable difference between the two."

"Yes," the man whispers, and the raw quality of grief is so pervasive in the word that it causes him to draw a step nearer without even realizing it, "yes, there is. A coward wouldn't have had the nerve to say what I said to you to your face, as I did." The voice trembles for a moment, then steadies itself, and the human's head lowers again, eyes closed. "No, I am not a coward, Commander. I'm worse than that, for I don't even have a coward's shame."

He is no expert on human emotionalism, but he is rather a self-professed expert on one James T. Kirk. As such, he can recognize a smoke-screen when he sees one; and this embarrassment over senility before the crew has just been recognized as an enormous such screen.

The pervading despair he can sense, the deeper than embarrassment emotion of shame, and the grief – those are the main contributing factors here, and they are not directed at the crew James Kirk snapped at while under the aging influence. The captain has a bad habit of taking his irritation out on his crew; and because of his handsome apologies and his utter love for them at all other times, none hold that fault truly against him.

There is not a crewman aboard who would even dream of bringing up anything the man did while subject to the effects of rapid aging, and they both know it.

No, that is not the issue here; which is as well, for he would be powerless to aid the human in dealing with such. As it stands, however, he most certainly can be of assistance in what he can now see is the primary issue at hand.

_You traitorous, disloyal…you stab me in the back the first chance you get! Get out. I never want to have to look at you again._

Spoken not by this man, but by a man frightened beyond belief of what was happening to him, a man living the two nightmares buried so deeply within his subconscious that had they never shared a mind-meld Spock himself would never have guessed just how deep the fear was rooted.

He will never forget the words, for he is incapable of doing so. But he can forgive them, and in fact already has.

But Jim does not know that.

"Why are you here, Spock?" the whisper startles him from his uncertain musing, as he is deciding how to go about this without destroying the remainder of his mental shields in the process. "If I were you, I'd be anywhere but, and no one would blame you."

The question takes him by surprise, but he can see by the utter despair written all over the captain's posture that it is a genuine inquiry, one that the man has no hope of really hearing a pleasant answer to.

His lips tighten at the utter dread visible in the human's eyes, shimmering clearly in the soft darkness, and he throws all logical caution to the wind and, not for the first time in the company of this man, acts entirely upon human instinct.

Striding purposefully into the sleeping alcove, he pulls the human's blankets off his bed, making certain there is an extra for himself as he is still most definitely freezing aboard this ridiculously specist-temperate ship, and returns to the living area. The captain has not moved, and in fact is not even looking at him – the utter indifference to the privacy invasion is most disconcerting, and worrisome if he will admit it to himself.

Kirk starts as he crouches beside the man in the grey-pulsating darkness, startled eyes lifting from his arms to shift almost fearfully to his face in the dim glow.

"I am here," he says softly, as he wraps the comforter around the shivering man's shoulders, "because it is my place. And nothing can, or will, ever change that fact."

He gathers the impression from the stunned look in the man's eyes that Jim is utterly speechless, completely not expecting that; and that had been his tactic when he began. To coax this so very stubborn human into opening himself up to another is an art mastered only after years of careful study; and it is never, can never be, an exact science. After their first chess match, he had recognized that to beat this man at his own game, Spock must himself learn to take him by surprise, and continually strove to do so.

Now is no exception. He takes the two thickest blankets for his own use, wraps them snugly about himself, and then settles on the cushions beside the human.

Kirk's aura of despair has changed to nervousness and stress, an unease that is obviously bordering on causing physical nausea. And, beneath it all, now that he is close enough to sort out the anger from the pain and the shame – he can sense something else.

Fear. The human is afraid; of what, he does not know – but he can conjecture, and rather accurately in most cases where Jim is concerned.

And again, in dealing with this man, one must surrender some safe ground before concessions will be made. He does not hesitate to do so, even if it is a mild sacrifice of Vulcan denial.

"Captain," he murmurs into the silvery stillness. "Your crew are not the sole beings aboard who are concerned for you after the events of today."

It is the final pebble that disrupts the avalanche, bringing the guilt and despair crashing from behind their barriers with the force of a mountain crumbling.

"How…how can you say that?" The human's voice is shaking as badly as the man himself is beside him. "After what I said, Spock, what I did…I can't even believe I'd think about saying what I did!" The soft hazel eyes are buried miserably in the gold sleeves now, and the captain seems to shrink inward upon himself in his utter despair, shaking with the remembrance. "I…Spock," is the choked addendum, "I'm not sure I can ever forgive myself for that."

"You do not have to, Jim; for I already have," he replies gently, for it is most definitely true on both counts.

A despondent noise emanates from the blanket-huddled figure, and then the captain's head lifts wearily, though his eyes remain downcast in shame. "I don't see how, Spock," he whispers miserably. "I called you disloyal – a _traitor_, Spock, something I swore after we ironed out that Talosian business with Pike that I'd never dream of calling you again. The Commodore was just in here a couple of hours ago, told me how he practically had to drag you into performing that hearing, how hard you tried to deflect his questions and prevent it. Spock, you did exactly what you should have done, to protect this ship – and I repaid that by calling you a traitor! Nothing in the galaxy could ever be farther from the truth; I don't know how I could believe such a thing." The human's hands clench convulsively around the blanket edges, stretching the soft fabric thin.

"You were losing your command, Captain, due to the effects of rapid aging; and you were afraid. Both definite, excusable reasons for aberrant behavior in humans."

"No, no. Neither is an excuse for the things I said about you. I don't see how you could ever forgive an offense of that magnitude, Spock. It is inexcusable, and unforgivable."

He cannot help the sensation that develops within him at the very idea, and were he human he might have laughed bitterly. As he is not, he can only shake his head. "Captain, you have no conception of the gravity of offenses that can be committed between us."

"No, I believe I have a pretty good idea –"

"You have _no_ idea!"

The words ring like thunder in the darkness, all the more pronounced because their previous conversation had been in low murmurs. Kirk jumps, fear clearly flaring at the unexpected heat in his voice, and he realizes his controls are vacillating at a very dangerous low.

So be it; this must be said, else they may neither recover fully from today's events.

"You have no idea," he continues, more quietly, as the human tenses next to him.

"I…I don't understand," is the frank reply, and within it lies an unspoken _please tell me_.

He turns in the semi-darkness to face the huddled figure. The captain still will not look at him, though the man makes no move to edge away as he leans forward – earnestness must penetrate where reason so far has not.

"Captain," he enunciates clearly, distinctly, so that there can be no misconception, "no possible offense you could ever commit against my person could ever come close to equaling murder."

The human is confused, he can see that much from the slight lift of the head. "…Murder?" Kirk asks blankly.

"Captain, you merely spoke empty, useless words under the influence of rapid aging," he answers, his own voice tightening in shame at the remembrances flitting through his barely-controlled memory. "I, conversely, deceived you as to my state of health, did not fully inform you regarding procedure, and then killed you on a field of combat after you broke four separate Starfleet regulations to take me to Vulcan."

For the first time, Jim looks at him – his head jerks up with a wide-eyed look of dumbfounded incredulity.

But he continues before words can be said, for he is not yet finished. "I killed you, captain," he whispers intensely, and the words ring with shame even as those accursed bells had on that day many months before. "To take the life of an innocent man is not worthy of forgiveness. What are mere words in comparison with that?"

By the stunned silence that permeates the room, he is quite sure the human is surprised temporarily beyond words; and indeed, that had not been what he intended to say when he entered this place with the intent of mending the rift that had sprung up between them. And yet somehow it is relieving, to after so many months admit to the never-ending flame of guilt that will ever burn in his consciousness; the awareness of that first vision when the blood-fever broke, that his first sight after the madness passed had been the still, lifeless face of the only man he dared in his most private thoughts call friend. It is a nightmare that he will never escape, and Kirk must know that he is not the only being aboard who fights his own daily demons, vanquishing them through force of will.

"Spock," the man finally speaks, and his voice is soothing and gentle as it has ever been. "I'd no idea you still felt…that is, you can't be held responsible for what happened then."

"By Vulcan standards, you are correct, Captain; laws are not binding upon the events surrounding the Time." He could have stayed on Vulcan after the _kal-if-fee_, and none would have prosecuted him for Kirk's death; even Starfleet recognized the legality of Vulcan rites. "But I am half-human, Jim," he adds softly. "And therefore, both responsibilities and their repercussions were mine." Which was why he had returned to the ship, to surrender himself at the nearest Starbase, and why he had informed T'Pau he would not live long nor prosper; he had welcomed death itself, after believing he had killed this most dear of beings with whom his life had become inadvertently intertwined.

The human's eyes, earnest and pleading, are fixed upon him now in the darkness, and he notes with some small satisfaction that Jim's shame seems to have been swamped in a wave of deep concern. "Spock, you weren't in your right mind!"

"And today, Captain," he interrupts with as much gentleness as he can, "_today_ – were you?"

Kirk blinks, slowly, four times, and then a look of wonder crosses his face, loosening the tense lines of stress around his eyes. He rests his chin against his arms, brows drawn with consideration "No," he breathes, a sound of tremulous hope among the chaos of a distressed mind. "…No, I wasn't…I wasn't at all."

When he speaks, it is with the finality of one who knows he is correct beyond doubt. "And therefore, by your own logic, Jim – you cannot be held responsible for circumstances beyond your control. And in any case," he adds when a small noise of protest escapes the human's wavering lips, "I believe the scales would remain imbalanced to my deficit, were we to, as you say, _keep score_."

A weak chuckle, muffled into the blanket, bubbles up from the huddled figure. "Let's never start, Mr. Spock," the captain says, smiling for the first time in many hours.

"Agreed." Most emphatically, agreed.

A small sigh, of contentment if the lull of comforting emotions buzzing beneath the human's relaxed posture are any indication, sounds close by him, and he does not feel the need to engage in unnecessary conversation to fill the void. All that needed to be said has been, now, and he believes the damage done today has been repaired to their satisfaction.

He can turn his attention now to the rebuilding of his mental shields, behind which he will bury the memories this conversation has dredged from the morass of his human side. He is grateful for this man's unique regard and more unique understanding of him, and is even more grateful that he was not forced to watch his captain die of senility, having lost his precious ship and believing himself to be utterly alone.

And if, fifteen minutes into his meditation sequence, his detached mind vaguely registers a warm head slumping down to rest on his blanketed shoulder, the soothing hum of sleeping human brain-patterns is not sufficient to disturb his progress.

The snap and light-flash of a holo-camera six hours later, when McCoy finally comes to check on them, _is_.


	50. Needs

**Title**: _Needs_  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, Sarek  
**Rating**: K+  
**Spoilers/Warnings**: _TWOK, TSFS, _and all their accompanying baggage. Yes, I am warning you for lack of literary value and beta-ing, and also pure SHAMELESS h/c.. :P  
**Word Count**: 3638  
**Summary**: Scene from after the _fal-tor-pan_, but before the beginning of _TVH_. Pure aimless h/c/fluff/idek for **dante_s_hell **'s **sick&tired!LJmeme**, for the prompt of _Exhausted Kirk, please! Can be gen or slash. Kirk/McCoy or Kirk/Spock. I just want very tired Kirk_.

* * *

In every child, psychologists and behavioral development specialists agree, there exists a crucial, all-important window of opportunity, between the ages of one and five years old. What a child learns in those pivotal years shapes his character, his development, his intelligence. The more neural pathways that are mapped through the young, impressionable brain, the more quick-thinking the child will be, the more apt to learn, the more able to interact.

Spock's mind, right this minute, is in that crucial stage. If mapping a child's neural pathways is difficult, then re-mapping them upon an adult's inert brain is even more so; and if Spock's head hurts anywhere near as bad as his does, then he would bet his entire Georgia upbringing that the Vulcan might be teetering on the edge of a very childish tantrum. And yet, he knows as well as this bunch of unfeeling green-blooded databases, that they have to push Spock to his limits now, while the awakening mind is still in the budding innocence and impressionability of a child's.

As the carrier of the katra, he is permitted to be present at the first, initial stages of teaching (information-dumping, is more accurate), for reassurance. _Even if Spock couldn't remember his name until Jim prompted him,_ he thinks with rueful irritation. _Carry a man's soul in your head for a month and he goes off and recognizes your best friend but not you. Typical Spock._

But he can't help but feel sorry for the Vulcan now, as he fairly trembles under the onslaught of relentless questioning, endless education, a literal pounding of knowledge and facts and expectant reactions that has gone on now for…almost forty-eight hours straight, probably, because he fell asleep for seven of those last night. These people are so concerned with getting Spock's mind up to speed that they aren't paying attention to the fact that this regenerated body has been under a considerable strain, and it's he who finally draws the line and points out to a disdainful female healer that Spock looks faintly like he's about to either pass out or start crying with informational overload.

T'Moira is unappreciative of a human pointing out human weakness in their patient, but she is not a fool; and besides, human or no, as the katra-carrier – and the only successful human _fal-tor-pan_ participant in Vulcan history – McCoy has earned the right to be equal with a Vulcan in every respect. She releases the patient to McCoy's care, and Spock hasn't yet realized it's unacceptable for a Vulcan to show relief so clearly as he does when the doctor takes his arm to lead him from the education and re-integration chambers in Sarek's estate home.

It is only then, to his everlasting shame, that McCoy realizes in the last forty-eight hours he's completely forgotten about Jim.

Sarek, to his eternal surprise and gratitude, apparently hasn't; though even he looks slightly frazzled, having to deal with Starfleet's most dynamic captain fairly climbing the walls for the last two days. What happened between the Ambassador and Jim he doesn't know, and Jim won't tell him, but something did – for the old man's attitude is nothing like it was when they first came aboard the _Enterprise_ for transport to the infamous Babel conference years ago. Sarek makes no pretense before his peers: he respects James Kirk, and even treats him in some ways as well as or better than he treats his own son. It is unusual for a Vulcan, and yet it is accurate.

He's grateful for this, no matter how that relationship was forged, because Sarek (Amanda has been ill lately, according to the household staff, no doubt aggravated by the death of her son) is probably the only thing that's kept Jim sane for the last forty-eight hours.

At the moment, Jim is pacing back and forth, his boot-heels clacking mercilessly on the flagstone of the warmly-lit corridor, fairly vibrating with nervous tension. He looks about ready to collapse on his feet, despite the energetic movements, and though he has cleaned up a bit from the fight on Genesis it's obvious he's not done more than a perfunctory job of dealing with the more serious emotional ramifications of what he's just done for the sake of a Vulcan who as yet can't even really remember why he cares so.

The resigned look Sarek flicks McCoy as he enters with Spock fairly screams _do something with him before he drives me out of my Vulcan mind_ (give or take a bit of phraseology), and he tries successfully to not laugh at the desperation evident in the silent plea.

"Jim," he calls over the angry tap-tap-tap-pivot-ing, and the man whirls to see them.

His whole posture relaxing at the sight of Spock, who has turned a more healthy color and no longer looks like he's about to throw a logical Vulcan tantrum before his healers (though oddly enough Spock seems a bit clingy, not willing to leave his side), Jim sighs, scrapes a hand wearily over his face. "How'd it go?"

"I am…progressing, Admiral," is Spock's answer, and his heart goes out to the poor Vulcan when Jim's face falls at the title. Clueless but willing to make the effort, Spock adds a quick, "The Doctor has been of much value and reassurance during my re-education."

Wrong thing to say, he wants to groan, but only winces as Jim's lips twist tightly in a bitter smile he's seen far too often in the last few days. It's been galling to Jim, to know he was supposed to be Spock's carrier for the katra and due to circumstances had to forfeit that privilege onto McCoy – and he didn't even want to do it, anyhow! – and the man resents the fact that despite the sacrifices he made, he isn't considered the true hero in the rescue; McCoy is.

He wishes it were different, but Destiny has always had a sick way of twisting their lives in an entangled mesh of good intentions and half-realized promises, bound together only by the crucial thread of love. It isn't fair, but it is true – and it will have to be enough.

Spock, bless him, is utterly unaware of what he's said that could produce the veiled hurt he can see in Jim's eyes before the man turns away, and casts a helpless glance toward the doctor as if to plead for explanation.

He sighs and shakes his head. Jim hasn't even had time to grieve for the loss of his son and his ship – his first, most intense love – much less to assimilate the fact that he's just thrown away his entire career…for this.

And what, exactly, _is_ this?

He has a Vulcan who knows nearly all there is to know of science and history, and nothing of his human heritage. On their walk back to the common room, Spock had recounted to McCoy scientific discoveries he made aboard the Enterprise, remembered the new species they had met – but he had no recollection of chess games with Jim, no memory of spending nights in the observation deck when the captain couldn't sleep, silently watching the stars as McCoy knew they had done more than once. Spock could recite the computer coding for the Enterprise's library console's computer, but couldn't remember the time when the Officers' Mess selector malfunctioned and drenched him and his captain with gooey grey replicatable matter, much to the howls of laughter from their watching crew. The Vulcan clearly knows how to analyze and categorize any type of radiation and compensate for it in navigation – but he can't remember how Jim takes his coffee.

And just now, it is a really, really bad time for Sarek's message center to light up with a missive from Starfleet, saying that Vulcan will be required to return the crew of the former U.S.S. _Enterprise_, for court-martial.

The stately Vulcan comes so close to scowling at the missive that McCoy almost laughs, but the realization of what they've done really isn't at all funny.

Neither is the fact that at the news, expected but nonetheless damning in its clarity, Jim wavers on his feet for a second, places one hand unsteadily against the wall. All the light has been extinguished from his eyes, McCoy can see before they're hidden by briefly-closed eyelids.

"Well, that's just wonderful," the doctor snaps testily. "The least they could do is say they're glad we recovered Captain Spock."

Sarek takes the emotional outburst in remarkable stride, he'll give the man that, but to be fair the elder Vulcan's eyes are fixed on Jim with something looking suspiciously akin to concern. As if realizing the fact, Jim raises his head, a soft sigh escaping his lips before he straightens.

"We're not going to have you forced to give us up to the Federation authorities, Ambassador," he speaks firmly, despite the obvious weariness evident in every line of his sagging body. "As soon as we can arrange for a custody ship to stop by here we'll let you take care of Spock and go back to face the music."

"You will do no such thing, Kirk," Sarek replies with quiet gentility, and McCoy's eyes bug at the blatant indignation he can hear in the words.

"I beg your pardon?"

"With all respect, Admiral – you are in no condition to be making rash decisions regarding your future, and that of your crew," the elder Vulcan states with a pointed raise of eyebrow. "Once you have fully recovered from recent events, then you may decide what course of action to take regarding this...summons," and McCoy could hear the clear disgust evident behind the cultured voice as the Vulcan looked at the message blinking on the screen.

"But…" Jim's voice trails off, and McCoy can see the warning signs even before the hand comes up to pinch at the bridge of the man's nose; lack of sleep, stress, and undealt-with grief are no doubt combining to produce an epic headache. "Ambassador, they'll eventually send someone after us."

"Let them," the Vulcan replies complacently. "You have performed a legendary service to Vulcan, Admiral. You shall have sanctuary on this planet for as long as you wish, and no Federation authorities have jurisdiction to countermand a Vulcan sanctuary order."

Jim's head jerks up in surprise, warmth filtering into the dead gaze for the first time since the _fal-tor-pan_. "Ambassador Sarek, I –"

"You will further discuss this with your crew and myself when you are not half-asleep on your feet, Kirk," the Vulcan interrupts with such gentle finesse that they barely realize he had actually done so.

Instead of becoming indignant, Jim only smiles tiredly, and nods – a clear sign to McCoy that he is fast approaching the precipice of utter exhaustion at a dangerous speed.

"Jim, let me get you all settled in and then I'll see about Spock," he suggests as gently as he dares.

The look he receives is half anger, half resigned sadness. "I don't need anyone to show me where my room is, Bones. Take care of Spock," is the weary murmur he gets before the man turns and leaves.

Spock's troubled eyes bore into his head, and he represses the urge to beat his head against the stone wall. Sarek decides retreat in the face of human emotion is the logical part of valor and bids them a hasty good-night, well aware that his son is not yet comfortable in his presence, and leaves them standing there staring after two retreating figures.

"I wish to understand, but I do not," Spock's melancholy voice breaks the silence, and his heart twists at the simple pain that filters through the uncertainty.

"You will, sometime soon," he replies, hesitantly patting the Vulcan's thin arm. But then the idea occurs to him, and there's no time like the present for a lesson in humanity, something Spock's re-education has up to now sadly lacked. "Tell me what you're feeling, Spock."

'Vulcans do not –"

"Answer the question, minus the rhetoric. If you're anxious that you don't understand, there has to be something triggering that. What is it?"

"I…" Spock grinds to a halt, unable to formulate the words, but the sad longing in his eyes as they settle on the darkened corridor to their left is answer enough.

That's all he was looking for.

"C'mon. This's gone on long enough." They need each other, even if one doesn't know it and the other one's in enough denial to write a book about.

"I do not –"

He winces, but a chuckle builds despite the aggravation. "Oh, shut up for a while, will you?"

"…Your words are at odds with your tone, Doctor. I do not understand the paradoxes of human communication."

"Part of why you find us to be so fascinating, Spock."

"…Indeed."

Jim's bedroom is on the ground level, courtesy of Sarek and Amanda; most bedrooms are on the upper levels but as the heat increases exponentially with each, their hosts had made the two humans comfortable on the lowest level of the estate. Now he pauses before the door, somewhat disconcerted to see that it has not been closed properly, but he hears no sound from within and so silently pushes on the light wood with little effort.

Spock hovers uncertainly, almost adorably so, at his elbow, but they needn't have worried about being reprimanded for entry.

James Kirk is fast asleep, the majority of his sprawled body barely on the narrow bed and definitely not under the cool sheets, looking for all the world as if he sat down to remove his shoes and just fell over before it could happen.

"Aw, Jim…" he murmurs softly, moving into the room with the silent, practiced ease of a physician who has had numerous restless patients over the decades.

Spock watches him with a confused curiosity, as he hesitantly puts a hand on the sleeping man's shoulder. Jim's going to have a horrible crick in his back if he stays in that position all night, and he's going to eventually get cold when the temperature of a Vulcan desert night drops to its lowest before dawn. He knows from experience that the captain used to sleep so lightly that just the soft swish of a door opening would send him bolting upright, fully awake and ready for a red alert. Years of desk work and instruction at Starfleet Command have not changed that habit, and so he fully expects the man to wake up.

Instead, Jim sleeps on beneath his gentle touch, one arm curled around the pillow and one still-booted leg dangling half-off the bed.

"He's exhausted, Spock," he whispers in answer to the look of barely-repressed concern from the confused Vulcan. "Any other time he'd be coming up swinging as soon as we came into the room."

He wants to continue, and wants to make Jim more comfortable, but something deep inside him tells him to step back instead. Instinct is as much a part of medicine as observation, and so he obeys the urge and releases the shoulder he still clasps, which is tense even in slumber.

Spock remains, looking down in uncertainty at the sleeping human, eyes troubled and brows twisted in a desperate attempt to assimilate and filter information and memory.

"He cannot be comfortable in that position," Spock observes, almost to himself, and McCoy rolls his eyes silently; some things never change, including one Vulcan's predilection for reiterating the obvious where humans are concerned.

He isn't expecting, but is pleased to see, that Spock bends hesitantly down over the sleeping man and places a hand on Jim's shoulder, carefully copying McCoy's actions of a few seconds previously like a child copies a respected adult.

Jim starts under the touch (figures, the captain'd wake up for the hobgoblin but keep snoring like an aging coon-dog for him), mutters something unintelligible before tucking his leg up more tightly underneath him.

He debates whether or not to stop Spock and decides in favor of letting the Vulcan follow his…well, he was about to say his _heart_, but that's a scary enough thought to make him hastily rephrase into the word instincts. Spock frowns, actually frowns, and shakes the human gently.

After a sleepy protest, Jim's eyes flicker open, blinking for a second as he registers his location, and then drag wearily across the wall and upward toward Spock's intent face a few inches over his head.

In a brief instant they are more alert, but it is testament to the man's utter exhaustion that he is obviously not fully awake yet and likely is incapable of being.

"Spock? What is it, what's wrong – are you all right?"

"I am…functional," Spock replies after a brief fishing for the proper response, and it warms McCoy's heart to see the tiny smile crinkle the corners of the captain's half-lidded eyes. "However, you should relocate yourself to a more comfortable position before resuming sleep for the duration of the night; it will grow uncomfortably chilled in this room, and I am told that sleeping in one's footwear can be highly uncomfortable."

"You came in here an' woke me up t'tell me that?" Jim slurs incredulously, rubbing his eyes.

"…Affirmative."

The noise he hears McCoy would swear is a giggle, except that Jim would be horrified at the very thought of the undignified noise being perceived as such. He renames it a laugh in his mind, but the generic word just doesn't do it justice.

The human stops with a sigh, arm flung over his eyes against the soft outdoor lights which fill the room with a chilled-gold glow. His mouth opens as if to speak, but apparently he thinks better of it for it closes again without a word of response. The silence is awkward, and seems to last forever.

Spock must think so too, because he fidgets with the belt of his robe before finally prodding the arm before him with long fingers. "Admiral, are you asleep again?"

"No."

Mystified, Spock blinks at the simple monosyllable, and McCoy nearly laughs at the endearingly stumped expression.

"…Then will you not engage in your rest period, beneath the bed furnishings?"

"Maybe, if you'll get up off of them," is the answer, tinged with affection and humor despite its weariness.

Spock turns a shade of grey-sage and scrambles off the edge of the bed, where he had sat to examine the problem at hand in close detail.

Jim makes a half-hearted effort to squirrel his way under the thin sheets, and then lies still, eyes closed, apparently too exhausted to complete the effort. Spock casts a helpless glance over his shoulder; McCoy only grins and throws him under the metaphorical bus, making a _go on already_ gesture with one hand.

The Vulcan's eyebrows twitch, but he carefully begins to unlace the boot nearest him, his actions stilted and unnatural, as if afraid of a rebuff for doing the wrong thing yet again. McCoy shakes his head with fondness; even if Jim weren't already half on his way to dreamland again he's always been a sucker for endearing Vulcan uncertainty.

The work of a few moments, and nimble fingers have the boots carefully lined up out of harm's way at the foot of the bed. Jim unconsciously curls up under the twisted sheet, face half-hidden in the pillow, and mumbles something that's probably meant as an unconscious thank-you before he drops off once more.

Spock stays there, uncertain and lost, until he edges back toward the bed, puts a careful hand on the Vulcan's arm.

"You heard the healers say meditation would be more beneficial to you than sleep?"

"I did, and they are correct," Spock replies, voice subdued.

"Then you should stay here and meditate. It'll be good for both of you."

"Doctor, I – "

"Have a lot of information to sift through, I know, Spock," he finishes, when the Vulcan hesitates.

Spock nods, helpless.

He sighs, and casts a look down at the deeply-slumbering figure before them. Jim is going to be a wreck in the morning, when it all finally comes crashing down on him; none of them have had time to really assimilate what's happened, and none of the rest of them have just lost a child and a starship and a career all for…well, time would tell, what for.

"Spock, you're gonna have to trust me when I say you'll need his help," he finally decides upon saying, and is rewarded with a puzzled eyebrow. "I know, he's a human; but he's far more than that, and you'll realize that sometime soon. Until then," and he points a stern finger at the Vulcan's long nose, "he's gonna need you too."

"I do not understand." It has become a mantra now, almost a catch-phrase; there is so much none of them understand but most of all this unique feat of Vulcan mysticism and old-fashioned affectionate stubbornness.

"You will, Spock. You will."

-ooo-

Jim _is_ a mess in the morning, though thankfully he waits until after his crew has gone off to explore the sights to really lose it. Sarek freaks out and hides like any proper Vulcan would under a Kirkian whirlwind of anger and grief, but McCoy's darned proud of the way Spock sits there and takes it patiently, remains there until the storm is spent, to then pick up the wreckage as best as his drowsing half-human heart can remember how.

And when, later that night, he looks out his window and sees Spock and Jim aimlessly meandering around in the starlit walkways below, snatches of prompted memories drifting up to where he listens, he smiles and then crashes himself for the first proper night in over a week.

It's not much, but it's a start, and he knows that someday soon they'll see that the needs of the one - or the _two_ - really did outweigh the needs of the many.


	51. A Threefold Cord

**Title**: _A Threefold Cord  
_**Charaters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 1950  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for ST:TOS canon, including Amok Time, TWOK, TSFS, TVH, CotEoF  
**Summary**: My first music meme, and I can't say I love the format, only being able to write until the song ends. But it was done for the TrekLit competition on LiveJournal, and it was fun. ^_^ 10 songs at random, one ficlet for each. Unbeta-ed other than a brief proofreading, as per the rules. And can I help it if my iPod mainly has Disney, 50s Big Band, and Star Trek? Try making a Disney song not slash or idiocy, and _you _see what happens. :P  
**Disclaimer**: I don't own the songs or Trek, obviously.

* * *

**_That's Amore – Dean Martin_ **

He did not have very many vivid memories of the early years of his service in Starfleet, but one of those that he _did_ remember with horrible clarity was the first shore leave James Kirk succeeded in coaxing him away from the _Enterprise_'s computers for a brief shore leave.

In all fairness, it wasn't anything Kirk had done that made it so memorable, merely the fact that Spock discovered the unpleasant way that Italian cuisine did _not_ agree with his Vulcan physiology.

Not to mention the fact that sharing a turbolift afterwards with Kirk and Dr. McCoy, who had both had an inordinate amount of garlic on their pasta, was highly unpleasant.

_"Do you boys like Italian?"_  
_"No."_  
_"Yes."_  
_"No."_  
_"Yes. I love Italian. And so do you."_  
_-ST:IV_

-

**_That New Car Smell – Michael Giacchino_ **

Months before, he had watched his ship, the love of his life for so many years, the ship he'd manipulated and connived his way back into commanding for the V'Ger mission, the ship that he'd risked so many times, barely scraping his way out of danger to save – he had watched her go down in flames in the stratosphere of the Genesis planet, in that horribly daring and desperate attempt to save the lives of the crew who had risked all to follow him into an insane rescue mission.

He would never forget the streak of brilliant fire that shot across the sky, like some giant shooting star, nor forget the utter despair that had settled over his heart, a grief rivaling that of losing his son. It was like losing a child, a lover, and he would never forget the pain.

But now, as he takes his place on the transporter pad between McCoy and Uhura, he cannot help but feel the fluttering of nervousness in his stomach, and he wonders if the NCC-1701-A will ever feel like home.

He closes his eyes as the transporter operator energizes. When he opens them, it is to the sound of the bos'n's whistle piping him aboard, and Spock is waiting for him with a saluting detail of smiling, fresh faces.

"Welcome aboard, _Captain_," the Vulcan greets him with a fond simplicity, and he knows some all-important things will never change.

-

**_Run and Shoot Offense – Michael Giacchino_ **

McCoy has seen a lot of weird things during two five-year missions, but the weirdest yet has to be these sentient trees that can move through solid earth. And they can hurl branches and fruit at them (ancient Terran movie adaptations, anyone?)

Vulcans are a peace-loving species, pacifists, and yet this particular Vulcan is more than willing to waive that where his captain is concerned. Spock pelts along after his gasping commanding officer just now, covering their retreat, and the doctor jerks his attention back to his footing just in time to hop a boulder, laughing to himself despite the situation at the sight of Jim taking a half-ripe pear to the back of the head (thankfully not hard enough to do serious damage).

Jim stares, bug-eyed, but McCoy's never so thankful for Vulcan ambidexterity, as he is when Spock calmly whips out a spare phaser from somewhere and with both hands blasts a wide hole in the group of trees blocking them from the shuttle.

-

**_On the Street Where You Live – Dean Martin_ **

It is three months past their encounter with the Guardian of Forever when the Denevan tragedy necessitates the captain's return to Earth, to take his nephew back for custodial situations and to take a short but deserved period of bereavement leave.

Spock is utterly astounded that the captain shyly requests he come along instead of McCoy, but he later understands. After they see Peter Kirk to his grandmother's in Iowa, they return to San Francisco, and he silently follows his captain through the Old Town. Jim meanders along, apparently searching for something, until he halts, looking with misty eyes on the street before them.

It is the street where they had been reunited with McCoy during their stint in Old Earth's history. The street that used to contain the mission where they worked, the boarding house where they slept.

The street where Edith Keeler lived, and the one where she was sacrificed so that they could both stand here today.

Jim says nothing when the hesitant hand comes to rest upon his shoulder, but offers him a sad smile before they return to their ship, and their tomorrows.

-

**_Oh Lady Be Good – BBC Big Band Orchestra_ **

Spock loves fuzzy animals.

Well, that's what the whole crew knows, anyway, though the Vulcan will never admit it no matter how many times someone points it out. Their resident emotionless being has a soft spot the size of a small planetoid for furballs, and it's the stuff that's whispered of and laughed fondly about over drinks on shore leaves or dinner in the Mess. It's simply adorable, though no one would dare use the accursed word within hearing of the aloof Vulcan. Or the Captain.

But even the overly-indulgent (everyone knows Spock can get away with murder if he plays his cards right, and no one can really hate him for it) Kirk draws the line when the Vulcan rescues a small blueish-grey ball of fluff, one possessing six legs and long, furry feelers that like to wrap around humanoid ankles, from a rainstorm on Altair VIII's second moon and brings it aboard.

"She is quite an intelligent, affectionate creature, and merely needs proper training, Captain, and –" Spock's protest was reportedly heard over the captain's startled yelp one night, followed by a suspiciously loud crash.

If the captain was limping the next morning, the First Officer pouting as only logical Vulcans can, and the furry lady of the hour had disappeared, no one dared comment.

-

**_Enterprising Young Men – Michael Giacchino_ **

Transporter malfunctions ranged from the highly disturbing (like the time when their captain had been split into two entities) to absolutely hysterical, like this one – turning Kirk into a highly intelligent, fearless six-year-old and Spock into a child-version of part of his adult self; namely, the part that would follow Jim Kirk to hell and back, and who cared what collateral damage they accrued in the process.

Young enough to get into all kinds of trouble, and old enough to know better. Old enough to nearly blow up the ship, and young enough to outrun Bones and Scotty when the two tried to chase them down.

Bones was approaching homicidal when they finally found the duo eight hours after the last near-disaster, but even he couldn't stay angry for very long when Scott discovered them on the observation deck, sound asleep on one of the couches before the largest of the star-lit windows.

_Nothing_ was cuter than a baby Vulcan snoozing gently with his head on a miniature Jim Kirk's shoulder, he decided as he gleefully snapped a holopic for future blackmail purposes.

-

**_I'll Be Seeing You – Frank Sinatra _**

The decision to join the acolytes of Gol and undergo the Kolinahr was, admittedly, not the best decision he had ever made. It was not that it had been a poor choice, for at the time his very sanity was nearly in shreds, his symbiotic nature torn apart by the upheaval going on in the ranks of Starfleet Command. Jim Kirk was a bitter, angry man for having his command wrenched from him, Leonard McCoy was exhausted beyond belief and returning to Georgia for recuperation before he became too unbearable to live with, and Spock himself was left floating in limbo, no real future apparent other than that unenterprising career in instruction which Starfleet offered.

He had lived aboard the _Enterprise_ for sixteen years; having that safe haven taken from him with little warning threw his meditative and emotionally-controlling center off more than he would ever admit. Jim Kirk was too bitter to be of much help at the time, and Spock himself knew not how to acclimate himself to such drastic change. He was awash in a sea of indecision.

He discussed the matter at length one night with Kirk, in the admiral's apartment in San Francisco, and they had finally come to an understanding. Kirk might not forgive him for his choice, but he had given Spock his _understanding_, and that would have to be enough.

But no amount of emotional repression could keep his heart from jumping painfully when, two years into the purging, an unusually fair-haired Vulcan passed him in the compound and for one illogical instant his stunned mind thought it might be his friend.

-

**_Witchcraft – Frank Sinatra_ **

The local equivalent of the population's recalcitrant witch doctor was a fearsome creature, all vicious intent and frightening appearance, with a booming voice that sent every native quailing in fear. The man single-handedly controlled the whole village with hypnotic power, balking Captain Kirk at every turn when he tried to reason with the natives for permission to mine the valuable pergium from the hills behind the village.

Finally, after three days, McCoy lost his temper.

Obviously, primitive mysticism had nothing against an old-fashioned arm-flailing Cain-raising Georgia tantrum, Spock observed in fascination.

-

**_The Processional – Alexander Courage (Amok Time Soundtrack)_ **

It was a far cry from the last, some hysterical part of him observed, this time around. Last time they had been on Vulcan, they had been outsiders, accursed off-worlders, intruding on a Vulcan wedding steeped in tradition and mysticism. McCoy had cheated the tradition, he had cheated death, and he got the idea that Vulcan as a whole really didn't appreciate that very much.

Now, McCoy was regarded as a hero, an extraordinary being, for being the first human participant in a _fal-tor-pan_ – much less a successful one – and he an integral part of the process himself, of saving Spock of Vulcan.

Despite the situation's seriousness, it was actually hilarious to see two weeks after the _fal-tor-pan_, that a very flustered Leonard McCoy apparently had Vulcan _fangirls_.

**_Hurting Each Other – The Carpenters_ **

Relationships are built upon highs and lows, esctasys and drudgeries, the commonplace and the extraordinary, the pleasant and the heartbreaking, the hurt feelings and the affectionate ones (both of which a certain Vulcan insisted did not exist).

Theirs was no different, whatever this was that they shared. As McCoy himself had said, it was a mystery to all three of them what bound them together in such a strong bond that even a Vulcan – an emotionally disturbed one, but a telepathic and brilliant Vulcan nonetheless – recognized the bond that connected them when he had first seen it.

McCoy sighed over the whole thing sometimes, until he remembered one evening an old Scripture passage his grandmother had read once to him, when he was just a little boy in grade school. He looked it up on the Federation religious literature database.

_Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; **and a threefold cord is not quickly broken.** (Ecclesiastes 4:8-12, KJV)_

A rare, full smile crossed the doctor's aging face. He copied the words into a message, and forwarded it to two wireless data-padds aboard the Enterprise-A.

If the young crew wondered why, five minutes into alpha shift, both their COs were smiling (one with his mouth, one with his eyebrows) at their padds, they only cast each other knowing glances and were content in the presence of a legend.


	52. Good Intentions

**Title**: _Good Intentions _(or, _Spock's Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Week_)  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 2,082  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Borderline crack, but not really. Warning for human good intentions, and basic fandom tropes regarding Vulcans and how they become intoxicated. Also warning for silliness and lack of editing, as the purpose of the below-mentioned comm is writing in a certain time period; in this case, _ninety minutes_.  
**Summary**: Killing two birds with one stone, this is an entry for the LJ comm **chronometric **(the prompt this week was _food and/or drink_), as well as answering a long-forgotten st_tos_kink meme prompt.

* * *

James T. Kirk had been absent for six days.

As the _Enterprise_ was the closest starship to Starbase Sixteen, Kirk had been summoned by a 'Fleet tribunal to serve as one of the three commanding officers on a judging committee for a court-martial. Not his duty of choice, certainly, but this appeared to be a clear case of negligence; while the duty of sentencing guilt was not something he would enjoy, he nonetheless accepted it with resignation, leaving the _Enterprise_ in the capable hands of his First Officer and crew for the eight days of hearings and testimonials and travel time.

This was the sixth day of his absence.

Which meant that everyone aboard, the Science divisions especially, were giving their Vulcan acting captain a wide, _wide_ berth. Only McCoy had been so unconcerned with his own life to poke at Spock during those six days, and he'd come off definitely second-best against Vulcan sarcasm.

Half the Bridge crew thought it was frightening, and the other half thought it was adorable, that their resident Vulcan got unbearably cranky when the captain was either absent or incapacitated on those occasions he became so. It was a standing joke that after five days their First was too grumpy to live with, and though some of them bore the brunt of cold Vulcan not-wrath-because-that-is-an-emotion on occasion, it was still endearing. Most of the time.

In his defense, McCoy had to admit, still smarting under the sting of Spock's latest flaming darts last time he'd been on the Bridge, Spock hadn't had a fun week. Jim had planned to spend two days going over crew evaluations with his First, a task which though it would seem tedious to others the two always rather enjoyed performing; the next day their off-duty day had coincided for the first time in three weeks and Spock had reluctantly promised to stay out of the science labs in favor of who-knew-what pursuits the captain had had in mind for their unheard-of free time.

Then came the summons to Starbase Sixteen, and all that had been flung out the airlock.

Spock's non-existent disappointment had been thick enough to choke a Xoronian musk-ox by the time Jim, grumbling and sighing, had left in the shuttle _Copernicus_ to head for the Starbase, though the Vulcan of course denied the fact with every fiber of his katra. McCoy had attempted to console him by eating dinner with him that night and had ended up only wanting to fling his plate at that immaculate dark head.

The next day, two of Spock's best lieutenants in Microbial Research came down with the Altarian flu, stalling one of his pet projects to a grinding halt while the two experts were down for the count. That night, a well-meaning yeoman had straightened the First Officer's desk in his quarters, and had cracked a data-disc containing the rough draft of his short treatise on the viability of silicon-based life-forms in a non-geological environment.

The following day, Ensign Chekov had accidentally hit the emergency manual jettison button for the Enterprise's port-side escape pods, which forced them to spend the next twelve hours locating and retrieving said pods, repairing structural damage, and attempting to decide how best to explain _that_ little detour to the captain during the COs' vid-call that night.

That night, the call had gotten canceled because the tribunal deliberations went long.

The fourth morning, Nurse Chapel had bumped into him in Officers' Mess, causing him to spill his tea over his tunic, and had then insisted quite vehemently upon accompanying him back to his cabin, apologizing the entire way (he politely, and emphatically, refused when she offered to locate a clean uniform for him).

The fifth day, they had spent the entirety of alpha shift finishing up star-mapping charts, and had been fired upon by a quite brash, and quite stupid, small Huraon pirate vessel. One well-placed phaser blast sent the little ship scurrying off into warp, but the cheap blow to their hull had hairline-fractured the transparent aluminium which made up the observation dome. Jim was going to, as McCoy would say, _have a cow_ when he heard about that.

Also, his meal selector malfunctioned that evening, turning his soup into a disturbingly green-grey concoction of viscous chunks whose molecular composition (and taste) seemed highly suspect.

The sixth day, Spock stalked the corridors on full alert status, wary of whatever else Fate might decide to hurl his direction, and crew members wisely scuttled out of his way, whilst praying to every deity in the quadrant that the tribunal would finish early and return their captain to restore the harmony of his ship.

By ship's evening, McCoy had taken all he could of what he told Christine was _Vulcan moping_, and toddled on over to the First Officer's quarters to take his safety in his hands.

Spock was, from the look of things, trying to figuratively choke himself in paperwork. One dark, warning eye peeked from around the corner of the computer monitor as the doctor wandered in, fairly daring him to even speak.

The physician plopped himself down into the spare chair and clunked a bottle onto the desk, followed by a glass and a steaming mug.

"Doctor, you will partake of your human need for alcoholic indulgence elsewhere than my working space."

"You're such a pointy-eared ball of sunshine, Spock." He raised the glass in a half-mocking toast. "Here's to mixed metaphors."

He received a condescending eyebrow as he shoved the mug across the desk toward the obscured figure, hidden as it was by the mountain of data-padds and computer monitor.

"Doctor, you are quite aware that my Vulcan physiology makes it impossible for my body to become intoxicated by the effects of alcohol."

"Mmhm." McCoy grinned, scooted the mug around a data-padd so its hot contours brushed the nervously working fingers. "That's why I brought you somethin' special."

Spock peered warily at him over the computer monitor, then glanced in consternation at the steaming ceramic mug.

"Go on, it won't kill you."

"What, exactly, is _it_, Doctor? And do be brief, as I have sixteen reports and four requisitions to compile before retiring."

"'S a mocha latte," the doctor informed him, throwing back another shot of his own poison and then grinning over the glass's edge at the blank look he received. "Oh come on, Spock, it won't endanger you; just enough chocolate and caffeine to make you feel better, not incapacitate you."

"I have no wish to –"

"Spock." McCoy sighed, and finally shoved a stack of data-padds out of the way. "I know it's been an awful week. Now for once do the human thing and have a drink with a…" he was about to say _friend_, and then the idea occurred that maybe Spock didn't consider him to be? Wouldn't be surprising. "…colleague," he settled for saying.

Dark eyes looked despairingly down at the steaming mug, and then flicked back up to his subdued face. "Doctor, I have no need for your well-meant, but ineffective, means of distracting me from my work," came the voice from behind the computer terminal, and the Vulcan returned to typing on the keypad.

McCoy scowled. "For the love of sanity, drink it, Spock! You're drivin' this crew crazy!"

"Which, in cases such as yours, is a far shorter journey than the average."

"Why you –"

Glaring, he reached over and turned the computer off (it had an auto-save feature; he wasn't that mad).

Spock's eyebrows spelled his Doom in no uncertain terms.

McCoy sighed, and slipped a hand across the desk to bridge the gap between them, scooting the mug closer to the cold, blank figure before him. "Spock, he'll be back tomorrow morning and I guarantee these reports aren't going to be the first thing on his mind. Relax." Something akin to alarm, and then embarrassment, flickered through the back of the Vulcan's expression, and he knew he'd hit home. "You've kept the ship running at peak performance despite the chaos people've thrown at you this week; that's all that Jim'll care about, and you know it if you'd just take a minute and think about it, _logically_."

The word was magic, and he grinned as the tension slowly began to ease from the Vulcan's stiff posture.

"Now," he continued, gently, when Spock made no protest or denial of what he knew too well to be an accurate diagnosis, "have a drink with somebody who misses him too?"

It was a request, not a demand, not a doctor's order, and it was obvious Spock recognized the fact, for the Vulcan blinked at him in some surprise, processing all the implications of what had just been said. A few moments ticked by in uneasy silence, and he shifted in his chair.

Then – "You are certain the concentration of this beverage is not at a level which could impair my cognitive abilities?"

Well, it wasn't like he had measured the liquor or the chocolate, but…yeah, surely not. "Quite certain, Mr. Spock." And even if it was, the walking database could use a little loosening up…

For an instant longer, Spock hesitated, and then McCoy could see the instantaneous change that occurred when he finally released some of the tension that had held him so tightly during this comically horrible week.

"Very well." Casting the curling wisps of steam a dubious glance, the Vulcan lifted the mug carefully in one hand and took a hesitant sip.

"Well?" the doctor asked, cocking an eyebrow at the surprised expression.

"It is…surprisingly pleasant."

"Old family recipe," he replied knowingly, raising his glass again. He wasn't expecting the Vulcan to return the toast, and so wasn't offended when Spock stared blankly at him. "To the safe return of the captain of the _Enterprise_," he said, smiling, and watched with amusement as the Vulcan nodded stiffly, then applied his undivided interest to his drink.

-ooo-

"Bones. Bones, you awake now?"

"Seriously, Jim, it's what…0230 in the morning! Are you back early or something?"

Through bleary eyes as he dragged himself before the vid-screen, he finally registered after saying this that the captain was still in his sleep pants…then he had been asleep as well.

He was instantly alert. "Something wrong?"

Thank goodness, the man looked more like he was about to choke to death from laughter than be irritated with him for whatever reason was keeping him awake. "Bones. Do you have any idea, any idea at all," and Kirk smiled even wider, "why my First Officer just called me up in the middle of the night to tell me in all earnestness that he is, and I quote, 'greatly anticipating my return tomorrow'?"

McCoy stared at the screen in horror.

A fit of high-pitched laughs, more like giggles than anything else (though the captain would no doubt deny that until his dying day), countered the thunk the doctor's head made when it contacted the desk. Hard. Multiples times.

"He also, when I asked him gently how he'd been, said that he has had a 'deplor…deploarb…_very bad_ week, Jim. _Very_ bad.'"

A small whimper escaped the pajama-clad sleeve in which McCoy had buried his face.

"But apparently he's 'ferscetly punctional' now, thanks to the good doctor's prescription," Kirk continued, grinning mercilessly. "What in the name of all that's _logical_ were you _thinking_, Bones?"

-ooo-

"Gee, I'm awfully sorry, Spock…"

"Doctor, your apologies would be more readily accepted if you were to voice them in a tone considerably lower in decibels than your present one."

McCoy fell silent, poking at his toast and trying to ignore Spock's there-is-no-pain-oh-holy-mother-of-Surak-yes-there-is expression.

"That is much more pleasing."

"I haven't said anything, you –"

"Precisely, Doctor."

A dark scowl shot across to land on the Vulcan's unhappy countenance. "You're awful snippy for a sappy drunk who can't hold his chocolate."

James Kirk inhaled a cornflake and choked on it. "Bones, that's enough. Spock, how are you feeling?"

"More than I would prefer to be, Captain. I trust this incident will remain off the record?"

"Do you know how fast we'd both be laughed out of Starfleet if I put a note in your file that said my brilliant, unrivaled Vulcan First Officer got sloshed on a spiked _mocha latte_?"

McCoy blinked innocent baby blues over the rim of his coffee cup. "I could make it a medical order, get you both off the hook –"

"_Bones_."

"Doctor, are you aware of the Standard translation for the Vulcan word _tal'shaya_?"


	53. Vulcan Determination

**Title**: _Vulcan Determination _(because it's so totally logical)  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 712  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Spoilers for Mirror, Mirror; takes place just after that episode. Fluff. And that's about all. :P  
**Summary**: Missing scene from after the episode Mirror, Mirror.

* * *

Immediate ship's business having been satisfied, he had no objection to delaying a full report to Starfleet Command regarding their trans-universal jump until he felt more at home in his own surroundings (and uniform). He was only interested in falling into bed and sleeping off the tension headache he'd returned with as a souvenir from their little trip in the mirror universe, and so only nodded when Spock veered off their synchronized walk. The door opened at the Vulcan's approach, programmed to respond automatically to his uniquely lower body temperature. (1)

"Good night, Captain."

"'Night, Spock," he mumbled in response, covering a yawn in his sleeve, and then caught a glimpse of the wreck which was the usually immaculately-tidy cabin of his obsessive-compulsive Vulcan. Sleepiness forgotten, he poked his head in after his First, eyes bugging in curiosity. "What on earth…?"

"Problem, Captain?"

He stepped inside and let the door close, preventing any passing crew from gawking at their commanding officers. "What trashed your room, Spock?"

He received a tolerant eyebrow. "The living space is currently housing an experiment, Captain; the room is most certainly not, as you put it, _trashed_. I have merely not had the time to dismantle the project."

"It doesn't look finished, whatever it is."

"It is not," the Vulcan agreed, placing the stack of reports he carried upon his machinery-strewn desk. "However, the experiment is no longer necessary; the debris will be removed by tomorrow."

"I don't know if I should be insulted or not that my First Officer was spending his time on his pet hobbies, while I was stuck in a mirror universe," he chuckled, picking his way through the piles toward their shared bathroom.

Spock made no answer, which was not in itself unusual, but he glanced up in time to see a distinct lack of tolerant half-smile which usually indicated the Vulcan's amusement. Frowning, he paused – and then a certain schematic caught his eye as his boot-toe knocked against the padd.

Wait a minute.

"Spock," he asked cautiously, picking up the schematic and then glancing at the nearby debris-pile.

"Yes, sir?"

Okay, so he could recognize that too-innocent tone by now. "Spock, I may not know as much about temporal physics as you or Scotty, but I can dead sure recognize a tachyon particle accelerator and a temporal gravitation inverter," he replied dryly.

Yes, there went the guilty look, he could see it clearly from across the room.

"You weren't, by any chance, trying to build yourself a duo-universal transportation device, from _scratch_?"

"…If you are aware of another way to acquire or at least construct such a device, I should be pleased to hear it, Captain."

He chuckled, and gently replaced the padd on the floor beside its components. "It's never been done, you know, not well enough to be precise," he said quietly as he began to pick his way through the clutter again. "It would have taken you years, Spock, especially on your own."

"As Mr. Scott was unfortunately in your company, I was left with little choice in the matter, Captain."

He had moved into the Vulcan's personal space now, though Spock had not yet retreated, only was shuffling data-padds and styluses around nervously on his desk and quite pointedly avoiding looking anywhere in his direction. He finally stopped and perched on the edge of the desk, waiting until the Vulcan swiveled his chair to glance shyly up at him.

"Seriously, Science Officer," he said, smiling, "if that storm hadn't made a bi-universal reversion possible, would you _really_ have spent a couple of years trying to find a way to travel between universes?"

"Negative."

He blinked, somewhat miffed. "Ah. Well, that's g-"

"I would have spent whatever length of time was required, be that two years or twenty times that."

Oh.

_Oh_.

For a minute he could only smile like an idiot. Then, reaching over the blue-clad arm, he punched the off button on the data-padd the Vulcan had studiously _not_ been working on.

"Midnight chess tournament, loser has to explain all this to Starfleet Command tomorrow?"

"Affirmative."

* * *

(1) Contrary to popular misconception, Vulcans' body temperature is several degrees lower than human body temperature; not the other way around as many (even published works, sometimes) seem to think.


	54. My BFF Amanda

**Title:** (open to ideas), entry for Challenge 002 at LiveJournal's **great_tales**  
**Rating:** G  
**Fandom:** Star Trek TOS  
**Character(s):** Kirk, Lady Amanda Grayson, silent Spock and one-liner Sarek  
**Summary:** Lesson of the Day: How to gang up on your favorite Vulcan  
**Warnings:** Mild spoilers for _Amok Time _but mainly _Journey to Babel_; this takes place after that episode, when they are on their way back from the Babel conference.  
**Word Count:** 100  
**Author's Notes: **Because my head-canon just sees Kirk and Amanda being total BFFs, even if we see very little of her in TOS. I just watched JtB, and now have the urge for Human vs. Vulcan word-war...

* * *

"You must visit us someday, Captain."

Kirk coughed awkwardly, glancing at his silent First. "I seriously doubt I'd be welcome on Vulcan after the fiasco last time."

Unconcerned, Sarek dismissed him. "T'Pring was not a fitting addition to my house."

"That's a highly watered-down version of what he _really_ feels."

"My wife," Sarek warned. "Such familiarity is not appropriate."

"That's not what you said last night, my husband."

Two sets of ears turned viridian.

Once he'd cleared his airway of half-inhaled coffee, Kirk fixed his best puppy-eyes on the lady across from him. "I think I love you; adopt me?"


	55. Unorthodox Therapy

**Title**: Unorthodox Therapy  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
**Rating**: G  
**Word Count**: 964  
**Spoilers/Warnings**: Spoilers for _Spock's Brain _  
**Summary**: Missing tag scene for Spock's Brain. McCoy and Spock have their own way of helping their captain forget his migraine...  
**A/N**: There's a leeeeetle TNG nod in here; can you spot it? Also, don't ask where this sprang from; the train of thought was a bit weird. Intended originally to be a serious piece and really - how can it be, after that worst-of-all-implausible-even-for-Trek-episode? :P Vive la random. I may be on crack but who cares...

* * *

As was his unfortunate habit after stressful situations, the captain of the U.S.S _Enterprise_ was at present merrily barreling his way along the path to a migraine of epic proportions. With adrenaline having vanished under the onslaught of relief, coupled with a thorough dressing-down and seriously threatened repercussions from his superiors for a completely blatant violation of the Prime Directive, Captain Kirk was not a merry man.

The admiral in question's suggestion, basically that the Federation Council would have preferred he left the primitive civilization alone to develop, and simply let them _have_ Spock's brain, had been the tipping point in a mounting scale of verbal warfare, and the ever-growing tension between Kirk and his superiors had blown up spectacularly in front of the whole bridge crew.

Not, admittedly, the best day he'd had in a long time.

His Chief Medical Officer and newly-restored First had practically dragged him, scowling and quietly swearing in Klingon, off the Bridge for a meal in Officers' Mess, and he was at present safely seated out of the way of any poor unsuspecting fool who might be idiot enough to mention The Brain Incident and get himself transferred to Waste Recycling in three seconds flat.

"You're sure, absolutely sure, Spock, that you're not havin' any difficulties at all?"

After ten minutes of trying to edge conversation out of a scowling Jim Kirk, McCoy had wisely given up and was proceeding to ignore his superior except to remove the second dinner roll and two of the cookies from the man's plate, chucking them into the nearest recycling chute.

The seething Glare of Death he received didn't faze him, not after the kind of brain surgery he'd just performed (at the risk of his _own_ precious brain, thanks very much). Coming between a man and his carbohydrates was in the description for this wild job.

Calm as a spring evening, Spock divided his carrots into perfectly-proportioned sections. "None as yet, Doctor."

"Well, that's a relief," the physician muttered, frown lines easing slightly. "Wouldn't want that pointy-eared brain of yours shorting out on us sometime."

"My mind does not possess physical attributes; therefore your metaphor is –" Both of them ignored the muted _clunk_ as the captain's head impacted the table. Twice. " – inaccurate, Doctor."

"Shut it, Spock. Goin' to let me give you that pill yet, Captain sir?"

Blurry hazel eyes slitted with ferocity. "I hate you both."

Spock's eyebrow inclined precariously. "You are entitled to feel as you please, Captain, however unjustified the emotions may be."

"The pill, Jim."

"I am not taking any of your pills!"

"Well, don't call cryin' to me later tonight about it when you can't sleep, then – I'm a doctor, not a door-to-door drug salesman."

No one could do I-am-unamused like Captain James Tiberius Kirk.

"Anyway, Jim, if anyone has a right to be grouchy it's Spock. 'Least you still have your brain intact."

"Yes, Doctor. It's trying to pound its way out of my skull and you are _Not. Help. Ing_."

McCoy sighed, blue eyes flicking across the table to where their First Officer was doing his Vulcan best to show the world that he was certainly not-concerned-because-that-is-an-emotion about their intrepid captain. To be fair, Jim was in very hot water over the whole breach of the Prime Directive; he'd done it too often in the past to be given any leniency over the whole ridiculous venture, especially over something that carried such a risk of failure as this insane trek had been. McCoy figured the man was entitled to be cranky…heck, he was entitled to curl up in a ball and cry his aching eyes out if he wanted.

Or slam his head into the table again, like he was doing now. Idiot was going to concuss himself in addition to the impending migraine. He should have programmed a sedative into the captain's meal card…

Spock had demolished his carrots and was finishing up his whatever-that-freaky-looking-green-Vulcan-beet-thing was. "Captain," he inquired blandly, "might I suggest you refrain from further self-harm, and retire to your cabin with lowered lighting and a cold-pack to ward off the worst of the effects?"

McCoy didn't speak Andorian, but he could recognize a rude response when he heard and saw one.

"Jim, grow up," he said, and ignored the muttered insult he achieved. "Spock, take him back to his cabin and sit on him if you have to, but make sure he takes his medication and goes to bed for ten hours, or at least until he stops seein' double."

"Very well, Doctor. I –" Spock broke off abruptly, looking with detached interest at his hand, which had halted in its progress toward his cup of water.

"Spock?"

The captain's hazy eyes opened enough to finally see what was going on. "What is it, Spock?"

"Fascinating," the Vulcan intoned thoughtfully. "There appears to be a gap in the relaying of information from my mind to my radial nerve. I am…unable to move my hand any further toward its intended destination…"

McCoy swore, all color draining from his face in an instant. "Oh, no no no," he moaned, grasping distractedly at his hair with both hands. "I knew somethin' like this was going to…"

Not-quite smirking, Spock calmly picked up his glass and drained it.

The physician blinked.

James Kirk gaped.

"Oh you are so _dead_ for that, you – you green-blooded son of a Vulcan!"

"Any revenge you could enact, Doctor, is quite worth it, to see that look upon your face."

"I swear, I will _kill_ you!"

Crewmen stared, jaws dropped, as their impeccably cool First Officer gracefully scooted out the Mess doors, just centimeters ahead of a screeching, fork-brandishing Leonard McCoy.

And Captain Kirk put his aching head down on his arms and laughed until he cried.


	56. Never Leave a Man Behind

**Title**: Never Leave a Man Behind  
**Characters**: James T. Kirk  
**Word Count**: 300; 3 true drabbles  
**Rating**: K+ for implied character death  
**Spoilers**: In order: _Galileo Seven, By Any Other Name, The Wrath of Khan _  
**Summary**: Captain Kirk never left a man behind - until now.

* * *

_I never leave a man behind_, was the mantra drilled mercilessly into the heads of every man aboard. James T. Kirk's adamant insistence that he never abandon a crewman had cost him dearly more than once.

He squeaked by with a stern reprimand for his reluctance to leave the Murasaki Nebula before finding the passengers of the shuttle Galileo, and that had been only the first time in his five-year mission that he risked the Prime Directive, Starfleet's disapproval, and once the threat of court martial, to retrieve a crewman whom most captains would have given up for lost.

* * *

He had diverted course to return to the uncharted planet on which they had encountered the Kelvans, there to retrieve the remains of Yeoman Thompson, who had become no more than a frightened pawn in that deadly game.

"I will not leave her there, in that condition," he had snapped, cutting off all argument from even McCoy, who had recognized the futility of the gesture. But no one had dared argue, not even Spock, and the yeoman's room-mate and friends wept with gratitude when they retrieved enough of the polyhedra to scatter Thompson's remains in space following a memorial service.

* * *

More than a decade later, James Kirk stood, silently weeping in the darkness of the Observation Deck aboard the refitted _Enterprise_. No longer his _Enterprise_, no; she had been Captain Spock's ship for months, but he watched within her, grieved with her, now as the sun rose upon a new world below. Light and warmth shone down upon the new life being formed there; the miraculous genesis of precious life, created from nothing – and one precious life, that had been sacrificed for _everything_.

Admiral James T. Kirk stood alone; because for the first time, he had left a man behind.


	57. Ignorance Is Bliss

**Title**: Ignorance is Bliss  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Amanda, unconscious!Sarek  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 1722  
**Spoilers/Warnings**: Spoilers for _Journey to Babel_  
**Summary**: Missing (crack) scene from the end of _Journey to Babel_. Spock and Kirk drive everyone around them nuts when they're trapped in the same Sickbay together.  
**A/N**: In answer to multiple requests for exposition of a line in my last Insontis ficlet, regarding Vulcans and their meditative trances. I don't profess that this is anything other than cracky fluff, so be forewarned. Read at your own brain's risk. Written now because LiveJournal is down and I'm tired of fighting with computers. Also, ff dot net keeps eating my formatting, so if words are smushed together here and there that's not my fault; I'm trying to catch them. :(

* * *

First a dead Tellarite to autopsy. Then a stubborn Vulcan with heart problems, and another stubborn Vulcan volunteering for a dangerous blood-reproduction experiment. Add to that an Andorian knifing their captain, and then said captain overexerting himself leading the ship through a space battle, all while the doctor was performing _heart surgery, _thanks very much, and Leonard McCoy had not had the most pleasant of days.

Then it started.

Neither of his COs were model patients. Between Spock trying three times to get up from his bio-bed after disabling the alarm system (Lady Amanda was a tattle-tale, McCoy discovered with glee), and their fearless Captain trying to direct his crew's operations from a portable computer while barely able to breathe properly from a healing lung, the physician had his work cut out for him already.

And then it grew worse; when Kirk and Spock discovered with dismay that their CMO refused to budge on his enforced bed-rest policy, they turned their attentions to each other. Sickbay rang for over an hour with completely random and haphazard conversations held in voices raised to cover the distance across the recovery ward, until Nurse Chapel had had enough and commandeered three interns to move the First Officer's bed across the room beside his captain's, so that the rest of the Sickbay occupants could have some peace and quiet.

Three hours later, McCoy was trying to keep a straight face as he administered a heavy sedative to Ambassador Sarek; the elder Vulcan obviously thought he was being subtle but the _someone-anyone-help-me-they-are-driving-me-out-of-my-Vulcan-mind _was clear as crystal in the request for post-op sedation.

The duo in question were at the time engaged in a colorful discussion of the theories regarding the multiplicity of universes and divergence within those universes. Spock had a 3-D holo-padd on his knees and was sketching figures to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make (McCoy had lost interest after the third 'fascinating' in as many minutes), while the captain of the _Enterprise_ was reclined on his pillows, squinting at the diagrams as he followed the swift fingers in their sketching and absently sipping on a cup of nutrient-laced orange juice.

Shaking his head, McCoy administered Kirk's next dose of pain medication and Spock's vitamin shot, and then left them to talking geeky. He had paperwork to do.

Another two hours later, even he had had enough; the intelligent conversation had degraded into a discussion of the virtues of coffee, adrenaline, and other natural stimulants versus proper rest and nutrition, and they were engaged in a virtual chess match on the 3-D holo-padd.

And when he was doped up on pain meds, Jim Kirk apparently was an oblivious and obvious cheater.

"I repeat, that is an illegal move, Jim."

"Is not."

"It is; a king cannot move in that formation."

"If a king's in charge, he can move annawhere he darn well pleases, though," Kirk returned thoughtfully.

"Not in a game of chess, Jim."

Hazel eyes blinked innocently, if a bit hazily, across the holographic board. "Why not?"

"Because it is against the rules," Spock replied with admirable patience, lips twitching suspiciously.

"Oh, tha's all right then," the captain slurred with a beatific smile, giving a regal wave of dismissal. "'Cause since when do I pay attention to the rules?"

"That point, I am unable to argue," was the dry reply.

"But it's more _fun_ when you argue," Kirk said plaintively, "'specially when I'm all human and emotional and crap, and your eyebrows do that twitchy thing like _my-brain-cells-your-illogic-is-killing-them_."

The eyebrows in question hit the Vulcan's hairline. "Captain, I believe we should discontinue this conversation until the doctor's medication has had sufficient time to be filtered through your body's systems."

Kirk folded his arms grumpily and sat back with a huff, only wincing as his healing back protested. "Well fine then, if you don't wanna talk to me you only had to say so, Spock."

Vulcans do not whimper, though it looked like this half-Vulcan was pretty close. McCoy stifled a laugh and moved toward the door of the recovery ward.

"I never said I did not wish to speak with you, Jim. I merely suggested that you are, as they say, leaped up on pain medication?"

Kirk choked a giggle into the nearest pillow. It was an unfortunate habit for his command persona, but when he was truly tickled at something he really did giggle; not laugh, not chuckle - _giggle_. McCoy had the Shore Leave vids to prove it (and sell to the highest female crewman bidder). "Hopped up," the captain corrected, chortling.

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Hopped_ up, Spock, not leaped."

"Ah."

The human sniffed injuriously. "I do believe, Commander, that you are implying I am functioning at sub-standard levels."

An incredulous eyebrow. "And yet you can formulate a sentence like the previous without effort?"

"Wasn't it great? I sounded like you!"

"Annnnd that's my cue," McCoy muttered, striding through the door. That would be all he needed, a sarcastic conscious Vulcan and a drugged half-conscious Vulcan-wannabe.

Lady Amanda Grayson, quietly pretending to read a book next to her blissfully unconscious husband and in actuality listening with amusement, grinned up at him as he entered, hopefully in time to stave off any more embarrassing conversation.

"Right then, that's enough for now from you two," he said sternly, pointing a finger at hisCOs. Both quailed slightly. "You," he ordered Spock, "sleep, or meditate, or whatever voodoo it is that you use to keep firing on all cylinders. And you, captain sir," he turned a suitably frightening glare on the wide-eyed captain, "are going to lie there and take a nap or at least rest, or you're not gettin' out of here in the next three days. Y'all hear me?"

"Quite loudly, Doctor," was the dry reply from the Vulcan quarter, as Spock lay back, hands folded loosely over his torso in a meditative position.

Kirk scowled like a child who has been told to go to bed while the party is still in full swing. "You pumped me fulla something, didn't you?" he accused, waving an uncoordinated hand in the doctor's general direction.

"Yes, and I'll knock you out if I have to, to get some peace and quiet around here for an hour at least," he retorted, hands on hips. "Now shush!"

Spock gave him a long-suffering look and slowly began to relax, his eyes losing focus as they were covered by the secondary eyelid. Soon he was looking blankly at the ceiling, as he entered a meditative trance.

McCoy shook his head, moving over to the other bio-bed and checking the readings for Ambassador Sarek. "They're a handful, aren't they?" he asked, chuckling as he saw the fond looks the Lady Amanda was shooting the two across the room. "They'd have talked all afternoon and all night, too, and probably will – 's why I told 'em to rest now. They don't get much time to just sit and yammer about stuff that's not ship-related."

"I gathered," the woman said with a musical laugh. "I was unaware that my son could so animatedly discuss ancient Terran music genres, or that he even had an opinion regarding the merits of orange sherbet versus vanilla as the mainstay neutral flavor in the ship's replicated ice cream."

The doctor grinned, glancing over his shoulder before scribbling readings on Sarek's records padd. "Jim will thank me later for forcing him to rest while those meds take effect; you'd have enjoyed the free show but I think Spock would have ended by pulling out his hair."

The ambassador's wife giggled suddenly. "Speaking of," she murmured, gesturing behind him.

McCoy turned, and resisted the urge to plant his face in his hands.

Vulcans, when deep in meditative trances, were unaware of their environment and usually could not be brought out of them by any means short of telepathic summons. They remained entirely oblivious of their surroundings for that space of time, and due to their secondary eyelids kept their eyes open, for all appearances, a somewhat eerie habit to those unaccustomed to seeing the open-eyed stare.

And apparently, to a doped-up Jim Kirk's intricately-twisted mind, this was highly intriguing.

McCoy watched as he curiously leaned over, waving a cautious hand in front of the Vulcan's face. Receiving not a blink of response, he frowned, and waggled his fingers, craning his neck to check for any sign that Spock could see or hear him. Receiving nothing, the man grinned dopily and, reaching out, dared to flick a bit of hair out of the perfect symmetry, leaning back and snickering like a three-year-old once he'd accomplished it.

"All he needs is a permanent marker, and he can draw a mustache and glasses on the poor devil," McCoy muttered, sending the stately ambassador's wife into another fit of giggles.

Drugged eyes glinting with sharp intent, Kirk picked up the wrapper from his juice straw and, balling it tightly, bounced it off his First Officer's nose.

Spock never moved, never even twitched.

The captain cocked his head to one side, as if pondering something in his medication-addled brain. "If you're descended from a felinoid race," he mused aloud, obviously having forgotten the other people in the room, "then will your ear flick like a cat's does when you blow on it?"

McCoy's head impacted the wall with a dull _thonk_. "Oh for the love of all that's good and sensible..."

"Doctor, I might like to requisition the pain medication you used for Captain Kirk; I believe administering it to my husband could produce quite…_fascinating_ results," the Lady Amanda said, eyes twinkling.

The _Enterprise_'s intrepid, impressive leader was now busily engaged in poking the unaware Vulcan, multiple times, eventually tapping out on the blue-clad arm a rhythm to a song only he could hear.

"Spooooooock," Kirk sing-songed softly, poking the Vulcan again. "You in there somewhere?"

Then McCoy caught it, a split-second before it happened; the minutest twitch, the tiniest indication.

When Kirk leaned over the next time, to wave his fingers within inches of the blankly-staring eyes, a thin hand shot up without warning, fast as lightning, and grasped his wrist.

McCoy now had brand-spanking-new footage to add to his blackmail collection.

Evidently, when he's doped up on pain medication and subsequently startled, Jim Kirk shrieks like a girl.


	58. Charms to Soothe

**Title**: Charms to Soothe  
**Characters**: McCoy, Spock, Kirk  
**Rating**: very K  
**Word Count**: 1186  
**Summary**: McCoy unfortunately has a cold while on shore leave. Spock is Not. Helping. At All. Also, Jim can't cook anything bigger than a marshmelon.  
**A/N**: Written on the fly for **writer_klmeri**, who is one of my most faithful and helpful reviewers in my fanfiction on LiveJournal. Truly, an amazing writer in her own right and a fantastic cheerleader as well, during days when I need the encouragement desperately. *many hugs*

* * *

"Spock, please stop talking. Just…stop." The plea was somewhat muffled due to the speaker's mouth being buried in his sleeves on the small table, but nonetheless the words were perfectly discernable. As was the warning edge of what Spock knew constituted the human condition of _crankiness_, an emotion which had more than once in his childhood sent his longsuffering father into the markets of Shi'Kahr to locate suitably expensive and obviously imported chocolates for his mother. Apparently it was a fairly normal condition of mind at regular intervals for a human, though he doubted the cause in his mother was the same as that which he currently faced with one extremely irascible Chief Medical Officer.

"I was merely endeavoring to indicate the most efficient methods of alleviating your discomfort, Doctor. Am I to understand you would prefer to continue in misery without outside input?"

One blue eye peered ice-daggers at him from under a swollen lid. "I'd _prefer_ you put yourself through a transporter set on a wide _dispersal _pattern, Mr. Spock," the doctor fairly snarled. The effect was somewhat dampened by the high-pitched and formidable sneeze which punctuated the sentence.

"Bless you," the captain's voice hollered from the other room, where he was apparently hellbent upon destroying the small kitchenette within their rustic shore leave cabin, in a disastrous attempt to make chicken noodle soup. Spock had been informed loftily when he questioned Kirk's culinary and medical expertise, that said soup was the consumption of choice when a human was suffering from a common cold, though he doubted the mixture was more nutritious than a vitamin-C-rich protein drink.

Something shattered in the other room, followed by a second or two of absolute deathly silence. McCoy wearily lifted his head, and Spock closed his eyes to hide the fact that he was resisting the urge to roll them ceiling-ward.

"I'm good!" the captain bellowed.

"I highly doubt it," he muttered, pointedly not looking in the direction of the kitchen door.

A congested laugh was choked into the doctor's sleeve as his head slumped back into position. "Ten credits says he burns the place down before producin' somethin' edible," the physician slurred, bloodshot eyes flickering half-closed.

Spock did not gamble; much less on such a 'sure thing,' he believed the term was.

A loud thud resounded as something struck the wall, followed by a clatter of metal rolling over the floor.

Pointedly ignoring the swearing emanating from the kitchenette, Spock ran the tricorder once more over the dozing physician's head. Congestion, primarily, no doubt producing severe discomfort and swelling in the sinus cavities and nasal passages. Minor throat infection. Probable headache and sore throat, sneezing and constricted breathing. Lack of oxygen to the brain was responsible for the snappishness and inability to focus properly.

"I believe, Doctor, if there is no medication in your field kit which would aid you, that you would be benefited from the archaic but effective method of inhaling steam vapors, preferably with an added mixture of menthol and mint."

"And you call _me _the witch-doctor."

"Among other things," he agreed complacently. "And yet I fail to see how such a venture could cause you more discomfort than you are currently experiencing."

A crash sounded from the kitchen, and he glanced warily toward the doorway, expecting chaos to emerge in the persona of one stubborn starship captain.

Hair askew, James Kirk poked his head around the edge of the doorway. "Hey Spock, this place is apparently too old for technology beyond basic electrics - what's an ancient can opener look like?"

"For electrics, a small device usually mounted underneath the upper cabinets, or else stored in one such cabinet; containing a plasticene base with a circular, serrated metal blade. For a non-electric, it is a handheld device containing two handles and the same such blade; usually stored in a utensil drawer." He refrained from pointing out that soup out of a can was hardly home-made.

"Right, thanks." The captain winked and disappeared.

"You know the weirdest stuff, Spock," McCoy muttered, rubbing his eyes and then coughing hoarsely into the same hand. "I suppose you can tell us the date the blasted thing was patented, too."

"The non-electric can opener, invented by –"

McCoy's head impacted the table with a dull thunk. "Never mind!" he whimpered, covering his head with one arm. "Just for the love of all that's holy _shut up_ for a few minutes! Go read your _Logic Digest_ or meditate or something for a while, just go _away_."

He knew better than to continue against that particular tone of belligerent crankiness, and besides that it smelled as if Jim were indeed burning the cabin down around them. Spock retreated momentarily to the kitchen, just in time to help frantically flap a towel in front of the wall smoke sensor as it screeched its protest to the captain's supposed cooking ability. This close to the alarm, the pain was excruciating to his sensitive hearing; McCoy's headache no doubt had been exponentially worsened.

Ears ringing, he permitted himself to be shooed away by a slightly embarrassed Kirk, and made his way back into the living room, where their resident patient had in the interim crashed on the small sofa before the fireplace, a pillow over his head. He looked like nothing more than a miserable bundle of blankets and temper, and refused to do more than grunt in answer to Spock's inquiry regarding his state of health. Spock finally gave up the futile exercise, and settled on one of the ottomans, lyrette over one knee.

There existed an ancient Terran saying about music being able to soothe all manner of savage animals, and it was as good a method as any; besides this, it would distract him from the increasingly unpleasant odors and muttered swearing which were wafting from the kitchen area.

McCoy lay silent and still through three gentle classical numbers until Spock's thoughts drifted to their last shipboard concert and Lieutenant Uhura's various song choices characterizing various regions of different planets. Sudden inspiration hit, and he changed his playing style accordingly.

He made a mental note afterwards; apparently, hearing a sentimental Earth song like _Georgia on My Mind _while ill could cause interestingly emotional effects in otherwise unresponsive humans. Granted, the human in question had been prone to sniffling for the last twenty-four hours or so, but it had not been quite so pronounced until now.

Head now visible instead of under the pillow, a watery-eyed McCoy was eyeing him with something he could not readily identify. The doctor opened his mouth to speak, and Spock discovered to his chagrin that he was somewhat embarrassed to know what might be said.

He was saved by a small explosion from the kitchen. Blinking, the physician looked aghast at the plume of steam escaping from the open door, then back at Spock, all verbalized sentiments forgotten.

A perfectly composed James Kirk strolled nonchalantly into the room, not batting an eye as something fell behind him, rolling through the doorway and under a nearby curio cabinet.

"So, I was thinking, we could order Chinese?"


	59. The Definition of Loyalty

**Title**: The Definition of Loyalty  
**Characters**: Kirk, Amanda, (Spock)  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 2040  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Spoilers for _Journey to Babel_; missing scene from after that episode ended.  
**Summary**: During the night after the events of _Journey to Babel_, Lady Amanda Grayson has a meet-the-parents-esque talk with Captain Kirk.  
**A/N:** No ship but friendship here, but if you want to read it as slash or preslash there is mention of the accursed_ L word_. *gasps of fangirl horror from readers*

Taking a brief break from my two major WIPs because my brain is screaming that it's had enough of both; I know better than to beat a dead horse where my muse is concerned. Will return to my regularly scheduled angst soon. :)

* * *

Ship's night was usually a peaceful, soothing time. The lights were dimmed in courtesy to the majority of the ship's crew complement being on a Terran sleep schedule, and as a rule the atmosphere was softer, more subdued. Early ship's night had always been Captain Kirk's favorite time of day, the time when he could hear his ship better than any other, when every thrum and noise from within her powerful walls and chambers reverberated through his being, One with him. No crewman looked surprised anymore, if he encountered the captain ambling the corridors with an easy smile and relaxed air, close to ship's midnight.

But because he was accustomed to being awake during that lovely time of peacefulness, he was now wide awake when the rest of the Sickbay occupants, save the gamma shift watch nurses, were sound asleep.

Sighing, he thumped his too-lumpy pillow in frustration (mentally composing requisitions regarding uncomfortable mattresses and accessories), and then carefully rolled onto his back from his uninjured side. He hated not being in the thick of the action, stuck in Sickbay due to an Orion's lucky aim with a dirty knife, but he hated more the feeling of disconnect with his silver lady. The solitude was pressing in upon him in the darkened ward, the silence more eerie than soothing, and his nerves had been keyed up to a rigid tension even before his injury.

Having refused in no uncertain terms McCoy's offers of heavier painkillers (with the drama aboard at the moment he had to be capable of being alert at a moment's notice), there was no way he was going to be able to fall asleep. And with Spock finally slumbering like a dead man across the room, exhausted from blood depletion, Kirk wasn't about to turn on a light to read or do anything else which might disturb him; he had no idea if Vulcans slept deeply or if those incredibly keen ears would detect the slightest motion.

Kirk huffed into the darkness, the only indication of his feelings, and closed his eyes for the hundredth time in an effort to force his brain into shutting down.

Less than a minute later he nearly jumped out of his skin when the lights on the wall beside his bio-bed suddenly flicked into dim life.

"…What –" he managed, trying to bring his heart rate down before the monitor over his head had a fit and woke up Bones (whom he suspected had wired both him and Spock direct to his cabin monitor).

"I apologize for startling you, Captain Kirk," a voice spoke from his other side, a smile evident in the soft tone. "But your distress has been evident for over two hours now."

"Lady Amanda," he breathed, slumping back onto the pillow for a moment as his back twinged. "You'll forgive me for not getting up when a lady enters, I hope," he added with a small smile, turning all the charm his tired body could muster toward the stately ambassador's wife.

He received a gentle smile in return, as the woman moved around the bed; thoughtfully putting herself into his line of vision so that he need not twist his neck or back to look at her. "I presume you are worried about waking my son, which is why you have not attempted to occupy yourself?"

Kirk nodded, somewhat abashedly. "I'm ashamed to say I don't know enough about Spock to know if he sleeps deeply…or if he sleeps much at all, actually," he added with a frown, for while he had a few times seen the Vulcan meditating he was aware that that was a different function than sleep for Spock's species.

"Vulcans do not require an abundance of sleep, as humans do, to function, as they are able to go without it for days and even weeks if the situation requires," the woman answered, silently moving the chair which McCoy had left nearby. "And therefore when their bodies do finally require it, nothing short of an explosion or telepathic contact can wake them up. Or possibly a glass of ice cubes over the head, so great is their distaste for cold and water," she finished with a small, endearing giggle of obvious private memory. "You would have to set off a siren next to Spock's ear to wake him right now, Captain. It is not dissimilar to a healing trance, the depth of sleep when exhaustion requires it."

He was glad for the company and said so, as the woman settled gracefully into the chair beside his bed. "Then I thank you for rescuing me, ma'am."

"Now, none of that, Captain," she returned, gently chiding. "I grant you I am old enough to be your mother as well, but you needn't make me feel it."

"Would I be too forward in asking you to consider adoption?" he asked, flashing a brilliant grin.

Amanda Grayson's laugh was delicate and beautiful, just like the rest of her; Kirk could see how and why she had touched the well-hidden heart of a Vulcan.

"I daresay my husband would have something to say about being outnumbered in his own household, Captain."

"Pity," he observed mournfully. Then, shifting slightly as his back twinged, he looked up. "How is he, by the way?"

"Resting comfortably," the lady replied cheerfully. "Your Dr. McCoy's bedside manner was, I rather think, far more of a shock to Sarek than his heart trouble."

He chuckled. "Yes, Bones is something of a culture shock to everyone, even humans." Fondness tinged his tone with evident affection. "I don't know what we'd do without him."

"Certainly we would have lost one or the other of them today, and possibly you as well," was the quiet reply, as the ambassador's wife looked across the ward at her sleeping son. "For that, he and you both will always have my gratitude, Captain. I am not without diplomatic connections myself; and whether Sarek gets over his preposterous obstinacy or not I will always be happy to help you if I am capable."

"Thank you," he said simply. If he was to continue a conversation with courtesy, he would need to sit up at some point, and so he shifted, trying to reach the remote controls on the side of the bed which would incline the head.

Pain lanced, white-hot, through his still-healing lung, setting off a dangerous coughing fit which sent him curling onto his uninjured side, gasping embarrassingly for breath. A small hand on his back steadied him, while he felt the bed incline underneath his heaving frame and heard the sensor alarm over his head be switched off manually. He vaguely nodded his thanks for the sensible and unpanicked aid, drawing a deep breath as the elevation helped to steady his struggling lungs. Slowly the clenching sensation in his chest eased, and he slumped back on the pillow, eyes streaming.

"Were I Vulcan, Captain, I should remind you of Dr. McCoy's instructions and reiterate the illogicality of your precipitous actions," Amanda's voice sounded over his head. A cool hand brushed his limp hair out of his eyes in a gesture so tender he was glad they were already watering from the pain. "However, I am human, so we will go with _what in heaven's name did you think you were doing, young man?_"

His laugh sounded more like a wrenched sob. "I think I love you," he murmured, smiling through vision he was blinking to clear.

Amanda shot him a look which clearly said she was quite aware of any charm he was trying to work on her. "I might believe you if you weren't a bit biased already," she replied, setting a glass of water next to the bed. Kirk was extremely appreciative that she had the tact to not offer to help him drink it, and that she'd had the foresight to dissolve his next dosage of painkillers into it. "I think you'd adore Sarek if he'd let you, just by extension."

He choked on the water, nearly spraying it back into the glass.

Beautiful eyes looked at him knowingly. "Honestly, all men are alike, Vulcan or human, in regards to avoiding talking about 'feelings,'" she said with evident amusement. "I am not implying you wish to, shall we say, take T'Pring's place in Spock's life, Captain; merely that you have been an extraordinary influence upon him, and not in the capacity of captain versus first officer."

He was pretty sure that blushing in front of an ambassador's wife was gauche, but it wasn't like he could really help it.

"Your son has been…an incredible asset to me, both in the capacity of First Officer and as a…as a friend," he finally managed to say with appropriate sincerity. "I honestly have no idea how I could have ever entertained the idea of having Gary Mitchell, God rest his soul, as my First and not Spock. It's…almost like the idea's just…universally wrong, I suppose." He thought for a moment before continuing with a sad, nostalgic smile. "A very wise person once told me that it was as if he's always been by my side and always will be – and that's exactly how it feels. I would be…completely lost, inside and out, without him."

He swallowed, but wanted this exceptional woman who could love a Vulcan – two of them – to hear the emotional truth which she most likely never would hear, in the worlds in which she moved. "People wonder how I can be such a successful and confident starship captain; the answer is simple." His eyes flicked briefly over to the sleeping figure across the room, softening at the sight. "Loyalty means telling someone that their stupidity is about to throw them straight off a cliff – and then following them off that cliff anyway. And that's exactly what I know I've been given. I don't need Starfleet or anyone else's approval or moral support – because I have _his_."

Amanda Grayson did not appear to be surprised by the admission. She looked down at him fondly. "I knew from the third week of your assuming captaincy of the _Enterprise_that you were going to be someone special in Spock's life," she said quietly.

Rubbing his eyes, he frowned. "Maternal instinct?" he inquired curiously, not bothering to deny or divert the statement.

She laughed. "Nothing so esoteric."

"What, then?"

"In fourteen years of service in Starfleet, Spock had never before referred to any human by anything other than that person's title," she replied simply. "I knew then that I would someday need to find out who this 'Jim' person was that was gradually edging his way into the majority of my son's correspondence content."

If he hadn't been growing so sleepy, he would have blushed again. As it was, between the lateness of the hour and the warmth pooling happily inside him at the kind words, he was only seconds away from embarrassing himself with a very rude yawn.

Luckily, Lady Amanda saw this, and stood with a smile. "You appear to be more relaxed, Captain; I will not impose upon your rest period further."

"You can stay," he protested drowsily, eyelids fluttering.

The woman smiled down at him, taking the liberty of untangling the blanket from under his arm and placing it in its proper position. "You need your rest, Captain."

"Okay," he murmured half into the pillow, belatedly realizing that the painkillers must be taking effect more quickly than he'd anticipated; that was hardly professional.

Luckily the ambassador's wife only seemed amused by his sleepiness, dimming the lights over his head and then making her way across the ward toward Sarek's room.

"Oh, and Captain," she called back softly.

"Yes, ma'am?" he managed to wake himself up enough to ask.

"I said that Vulcans sleep extremely deeply." A mischievous smile formed and filtered through the darkness toward him; he felt it rather than saw it. "I said nothing about _half_-Vulcans."

And she disappeared into the shadows of Sarek's room.

Wide-eyed, he stared at the ceiling in dismay, praying that he was wrong.

"Um…Spock? You really awake?"

Silence.

"…Affirmative."

He swore softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So you heard everything."

"Affirmative."

"Your mom is just _evil_."

"Affirmative."


	60. A Piece of Reaction

**Title**: _A Piece of Reaction_  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, Sulu, Chekov  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 2348  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: No spoilers. Warning for crack fic. _Definitely _crack fic. And food fights.  
**Summary**: The Triumvirate are fighting again. Hikaru Sulu intervenes with a unique form of stress relief therapy.  
**A/N**: Yes, this is crack, so you have been warned. My brain needed a break from LJ's StarTrekBigBang (which is currently at 22,000 words and counting, deadline Wednesday). I have not forgotten my WIPs, including Insontis, but I have to focus on the STBB until it's done. I will return. This is just a cracky interlude written for a friend and because my brain was saying it had had quite enough angst for one month, thx. You have been duly warned about the crack. :P

* * *

Mom and Dad were fighting again.

Well, they were. And he'd made the _colossal_ mistake of saying so in an undertoned mutter, mostly to warn Chekov that his chirpiness on an already strained alpha shift was, if not toned down, going to become the shatterpoint for a fragile but at least bearable silence.

He hadn't forgotten about Vulcan hearing, either, exactly…but he could pretend that so as to avoid verbal evisceration while still getting his point across. Unfortunately, he had forgotten just how close the command chair was to the navigation console, and how in the deathly stillness which palled the bridge the captain had nothing else to do but listen to the noises which broke said stillness.

His friends, including a nervous-looking Chekov, had promptly thrown him under the bus when the captain's sharp "Something you'd like to share with the class, Mr. Sulu?" had cracked across the bridge like glass shattering, and so no one could blame him for feeling a little sorry for himself when he was finally able to escape the Bridge for midday meal just ahead of his superiors.

No one really knew how it had started. And it wasn't anyone's business – as long as it didn't affect crew morale. Once it started to, then in Sulu's frank opinion it was fair game for ship's gossip and crewman interference. If any more ice-daggers flew across the Bridge, they were going to have to thaw out the motherboards and break out thermal wear for anyone within three decks of the cross-fire.

Perhaps, he mused thoughtfully as he settled into an empty table for lunch (they were a bit late for the midday rush; only a few tables were occupied), he could enlist the help of Dr. McCoy, seeing that the guy was the only person aboard who could – in fact, at some point _had_ thumped both his COs upside the head and gotten away with it…

He blinked as a stone-faced Spock seated himself at one end of a small table, ignoring the small, pitiful glance the captain flung after him before the man plopped himself grumpily into a corner with his back to the wall and a plate of what looked suspiciously like comfort foods in his hands. At the other end of Spock's table, the physician in question shot the Vulcan a look of venom before sliding to his feet and moving to the next to sit with Christine Chapel.

Okay, so Mom and Dad and…the scary uncle were fighting.

He watched McCoy harass a yeoman for pushing aside his pile of mashed carrots.

Nah, _Moms _and Dad.

Sulu rubbed the bridge of his nose. Honestly. He should write a psychology treatise for Starfleet Medical; he was sure of its potential acclaim among the Admiralty at least. The COs of the starship _Enterprise_ were a bunch of teenage _girls_.

He was too tired to still be irritated with Chekov, only glad to have someone to metaphorically watch his back, when the young Russian slid into the chair next to him.

"_Chyort_, this is bordering on ridiculous," the navigator muttered, peevishly attacking his sandwich with a destructive zeal which slightly creeped him out.

"You're telling me. What's it been, three days now?"

"Three, _da_. And not an end in sight. I am this close to requesting temporary transfer to Tactical," was the doleful reply.

He shot the younger man a commiserating look. "Yeah, Spock's been a little hard on you lately, hasn't he?"

Chekov shrugged, carefully not accusing his beloved mentor of anything. It was kind of adorable, Sulu thought. "He is…very intense, Meester Spock. Science is exact; must be done just so, or it is not science."

"Nurse Anya says Medical's about to throw their CMO out on his ear if something doesn't snap, he's driving everyone up the wall," Sulu said, finishing off his vegetable medley. Somehow, in food cube form, though the cubes provided proper nutrition and proteins, they really didn't do the trick of making you feel full, only like you'd been nibbling on polystyrene foam for a half-hour. He regretted wasting his week's allotment of 'real' replicated food early in the week instead of saving some of it – rationing it, since they were in the middle of the Second Cold War apparently – for now.

"Ve could get Mr. Scott to lock them in a turbolift," Chekov suggested.

"Didn't you and Uhura do that last time?"

"Ah. Vell…"

He sighed and pushed away the rest of his meal, if it could be called that, and absently toyed with one of the brightly-colored objects. "D'you think I could hit the Commander with one of these from here?" he asked idly, picking up one of them and piloting an imaginary trajectory.

Chekov's horrified look made him burst into laughter, which sounded odd in the eerie quiet rattle of the room; the rest of them were busy trying to fly cloaked under the scan of Vulcan/human mutual cold-fury.

His eyes idled across the moping figure of their stubborn captain, who was scrawling his signature across a padd with far more force than necessary, over to their placid Vulcan who was radiating do-not-so-much-as-look-at-me as clearly as the fact that he was unhappy about the whole thing, and finally to their irascible CMO, who had been dumped by Chapel and the other occupants of the table as quickly as politeness would allow.

In fact, Sulu just noticed that there were only a few odd crewmen dotted about the place and those were in the process of leaving; this was more of a problem than he'd thought.

"Maybe zhey are just having a bad day," Chekov finally offered feebly.

He caught himself in time to not raise a Spock-like eyebrow, cocking his head instead. "For _three _days?"

"Stress vill do that."

"We've been _star-charting_, Pavel, not ferrying ambassadors or negotiating with volatile alien species."

"Boredom, then."

Now that was actually a possibility. Crew morale as a whole dipped steadily when there was nothing going on; with nothing to occupy or relax the mind, the vastness of space began to wear on the emotions and health of a crew in general.

"Maybe," he pondered aloud. "But we're still stuck in this milk run for two more weeks – do you want two weeks of tolerating this until they kiss and make up?"

"_Nyet_!" The young Russian's hair flew wildly with the force of his head-shaking. "Vhat are you going to do, then, Hikaru?" he asked warily, no doubt seeing the evil glint which suddenly had filled his weird brain, and by extension, his expression.

"Boredom and stress relief therapy. It's a very old principle, Pavel –"

"I _know_. Stress relief therapy vas invented in Russia, everyone knows that."

He rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond, and picked up the biggest of the inedible food cubes; then he sized up the room and its occupants. Hmm…no, he'd need more power behind it. He reached over and appropriated Chekov's unused spork.

"Vhat are you –"

"Psychology says that releasing your inner child is supposed to be good for stress relief," he told the young navigator, whose eyes were wide as lunch plates themselves.

He took careful aim, calculating the trajectory and tiny variations of the artificial gravity, and used the spork to catapult the food cube straight into the captain's half-eaten mashed potatoes.

It landed with a wet splat, spraying gravy all over the data-padd the man was so moodily attacking. Kirk dropped the stylus in shock, staring at the food cube half-buried in his uneaten meal.

Sulu hastily shoved his own plate onto the seat beside him, elbowing Chekov to keep his mouth shut and head low so that they could remain invisible, acting as if they were deep in conversation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the captain's gaze narrow, flitting to Spock who was calmly dissecting some freaky-looking-green-tuberlike-thing into exact and equal proportions…over to McCoy.

Whose plate was still half-full of unappetizing food cubes.

"You are evil," Chekov whispered, unashamedly admiring.

"I know."

"I love it."

"I know."

A disgusted yelp drew their attention to the CMO's nearly-empty table, where he was currently staring downward in utter shock, where a half-eaten dinner roll now sat plastered via brown gravy onto his plate.

Sulu saw one of Spock's eyebrows perk in disinterest and then return to its position, obviously ignoring whatever idiocy the humans were up to this time.

Two seconds and another well-placed shot later, the eyebrow was back in the air and stayed there, as a food cube bounced off the side of the Vulcan's head with perfect accuracy.

"_Really_, Doctor McCoy," the First intoned severely, turning and sending the CMO a look that would have made Sulu wet his pants.

"What'd I do?" the doctor demanded hotly.

Spock clearly did not believe the man's apparent innocence, and turned back to his meal, disgust evident in every pore.

Sulu had to be more careful with the next food cube, as Kirk kept flicking half-interested glances at his two temporarily-not-anymore-BFFs. Taking advantage of a lull, he let fly with another cube each, one bouncing off the table two inches from the captain and the other skimming the Vulcan's plate before skittering across the floor.

Hazel eyes met dark Vulcan ones. Spock's eyebrow inched to half-mast; Kirk nodded in silent answer.

Well, Sulu thought, at least they were communicating again, even if that wordless I'm-on-the-same-creepy-wavelength thing they did always weirded him out.

McCoy suddenly quailed, uneasy under twin looks of Impending Epic Ganging-Up Upon Chief Medical Officers.

"I didn't do anything!" the man yelped, literally having no idea what the heck was going on.

"Hmm, really?" Kirk held up the now soggy food cube. "I suppose it was _Spock_ chucking these at me? When he isn't using a cube ration today?"

"Chucking…those aren't mine! _You _may delight in actin' like you're twelve, but I've dead sure got better things to do with my time than start a – a food fight!"

"Oh no?"

"I believe, Doctor, what the Captain means to say is that you should not begin that which you are unwilling to continue or incapable of finishing," Spock picked that moment to interject helpfully, all the while removing himself subtly from the immediate line of fire.

Sulu stifled a flood of laughter in his sleeve.

Ice-blue eyes narrowed, gleamed. "Oh, I didn't _start_ anything, Jim-boy."

The captain decided wisely, if belatedly, to form a better strategy than hide-behind-Spock-because-who-would-dare-t

o-mess-up-that-immaculate-hair, and began edging backward toward the nearest food replicator.

McCoy grinned wolfishly. "But you can bet your bottom credit I'm 'willing to continue and capable of finishing,'" he said, grabbing the nearest food item – which happened to be a large and sticky portion of Spock's gods-knew-what-alien-vegetable – and flinging it at his superior's head as Kirk tripped over a chair.

The not-precisely-masculine shriek of sheer disgust as the object impacted the captain's head, sticking briefly in his hair before squelching to the floor, sent a shell-shocked Chekov into a fit of giggles. Sulu hastily clamped a hand over the younger man's mouth before he gave away both their presence and their duplicity.

McCoy's cackle of evil laughter (Sulu was receiving the mad scientist vibe loud and clear) was cut short when he flung himself downward to avoid a hurtling chicken leg.

"That's a waste of good Southern food, Jim!" he hollered, chucking it back at his superior.

"Your good Southern self can have this too, then!"

Sulu's eyes widened as the captain launched an enormous sporkful of mashed potatoes at the physician, who was struggling back to his feet on a greasy floor, arm flailing for ammunition which would do more damage than a food cube. Unfortunately, Kirk's aim with a soppy projectile was considerably poorer than with a phaser or other weapon.

Spock had not quite gotten out of the way, and his uniform became the first collateral damage.

The captain's look of sheer uh-oh-I-am-so-dead was priceless.

Kirk made the executive decision to retreat toward the replicators. McCoy's jeers followed him. "What'sa matter, Jim, where d'you think you're going?"

"To get ammunition!" The captain began punching an override code into the nearest replicator, casting uneasy glances over his shoulder all the while.

McCoy's eyes followed the drip of gravy as it meandered down Spock's Science blues, finally plopping onto the floor. "You gonna let him get away with that?" he asked cordially.

Sulu shivered at the gleam of dark, Vulcan humor which sent life back into Spock's eyes. Vulcans don't do humor. Which is why Spock was just flat _scary _when he did. It made him want to curl into a ball and suck his thumb until it was all over.

"Negative, Doctor. Need I inquire, upon whose side lie your loyalties?"

"Uhhhh…" The physician gulped, eyes flitting to his captain, who was now stalking back toward them, hands full of… "Please tell me those aren't Brussels sprouts and blocks of cream cheese?"

"Yup," Kirk called, grinning.

"I'm on yours, Mr. Spock," the doctor said hastily, scuttling around the table.

"Traitor!" the captain gibed cheerfully, as he methodically constructed a small catapult from a discarded tray and various odds and ends of eating utensils.

"I belief the expression is, you have created a monster," Chekov observed, just before they both were forced to dive for cover from a flying banana and crawl unnoticed to the far set of doors, beating a hasty retreat before being spotted by the three combatants.

They needn't have worried; last thing they saw before scurrying out was McCoy trying to empty a glass of lemonade over their captain's head, while Kirk himself was in the process of calculating the trajectories of a fusillade of cream-cheese chunks aimed over the top of his First Officer's makeshift shield.

Over dinner that evening, a puzzled Lieutenant Kyle said he'd run into his three COs earlier in the afternoon when he was coming in for a mid-afternoon snack, all three of them in dirty uniforms and carrying various cleaning supplies from the direction of Officers' Mess. As if that wasn't weird enough, the captain had been all smiles and sunshine, elbowing both his smug-looking subordinates and going off into a hoot of laughter just before the turbolift doors had closed on the odd trio.

No one believed poor Kyle, of course.

And Sulu wasn't about to ask if Kirk had mentioned who won.


	61. No Man Is an Island

**Title**: _No Man Is an Island_ (though a Vulcan can be a peninsula)  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy, various minor  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 11,600ish  
**Genres**: h/c, angst, friendship, gratuitous nasty-entity-on-an-alien-planet-going-after-the-Triumvirate  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Set after _Shore Leave_ and _Spectre of the Gun, _though no real spoilers for either episode. Anything in the TOS universe is fair game for unintentional spoilers. **Warning for unfinished fic**, with no intention of finishing - however, this is the primary meat of the fic including the climax; it could stand alone if you ignore the lack of villain capture. No cliffhanger, in other words.  
**Summary**: Things are not what they seem on the latest away mission, and it takes the combined efforts of three very different beings to find the truth. Or,_ an alien entity which feeds off of emotions decides to imprison the one member of the crew who has nothing to give it.  
_**A/N**: As stated, this fic is unfinished, at least for the foreseeable future, as I've moved on somewhat from writing for the Trek fandom. However, as a smallish gift to a good friend, **writer_klmeri**, I wanted today to do something in that universe one more time, and so I pulled this out and gave it a bit of dust and polish and a few small rewrites. Began this fic long ago and never got around to finishing it, and if I do return to TOS my current WIPs will take precedent; so here's a free plot bunny, if anyone wants to adopt it. I thought I'd also throw this out there for my TOS readers who have perhaps been missing my presence in the fandom, as a temporary farewell gift.

* * *

Eidetic memory was an ability treasured by the Vulcan and Romulan races for centuries, and one that other races were ridiculously jealous of – but in this particular instance, whether by reason of his half-human nature or because even Vulcans were not endlessly patient, he considered it a less-than-desirable trait.

Said eidetic memory's annoyance lay in its persistent and periodic reminders of the increase in time since he had been first imprisoned; four days, seven hours, thirty-two minutes, and…seventeen, eighteen seconds now. While not an interminable time by any stretch, and while he could certainly remain functional for longer without food or sleep, nevertheless even Vulcans required hydration (though less so than humans), and the frustration lay in the knowledge that unless something out of the ordinary were to happen, he was not likely to be freed at any time in the near future.

Ordinarily, by this point in a botched diplomatic assignment resulting in a command crewman's abduction, the Captain would have decided that full phaser power was a better argument than diplomacy and would have thrown regulation to the winds of the cosmos, simply barreling into the compound and indulging in what Dr. McCoy referred melodramatically to as an 'old-fashioned jailbreak with guns a-blazin'.'

While certainly lacking in finesse, the Captain's methods had proven effective before, and Spock had been indebted more than once to the human's brash attitude. Starfleet Command was slightly less enthusiastic about the incidents, but their pride and joy was too valuable to be discarded due to a propensity to place his crew's safety above 'Fleet regulations.

The irritation with his situation lay in the fact that, on this planet, what appeared to be reality was indeed nothing of the kind; he had only just discovered that the compound, buildings, people, even the foliage, were mostly holographic, projected partially through machine and partially through power of will of the supposed deity that ruled this world. (Deity being an abstract term, and a self-appointed one, for whatever the deity was it was certainly not benevolent nor happy to see intruders on its native soil.) Its psionic power, however, was such that even he was unable to completely defeat, and therein lay the real danger for the crew of the Enterprise.

McCoy would probably snort and call that the understatement of the eons, but the entity was possessing of a very vindictive spirit which delighted in pain and confusion – possibly, Spock conjectured in his currently all-too-abundant spare time, deriving its energies from the negative emotions; primarily fear, hatred, anger, and malice. His natural lack of response to it had weakened its power over the crew, but he had been stunned by holographic energy that nevertheless held the capability to dazed his unprepared mind long enough for capture.

Unfortunately, if the creature preyed on fear and anger, then Captain James T. Kirk, whose First Officer had disappeared without a trace four days ago, was prime fuel for its flame. (He was not even going to _start_ contemplating what the volatile Dr. McCoy was giving to it.)

One indication of the entity's malevolence was in that Spock was literally imprisoned in plain sight; hidden from view solely by a partially holographic screen which projected the image of a blank wall. Had he been able to call out to the Captain, who had already stormed around the compound on three separate occasions, or had the Captain any sort of sensitivity to psychic influence, he might have been able to deduce that what he saw was not in reality an actual wall – but Jim was psi-null, and not overly imaginative in those areas which he could not tangibly see. Therefore, to all human perception, the wall was indeed solid, physically and visibly.

One strength of the Captain's was that, once presented with a new idea, he could follow it to its logical conclusion, and sometimes more than one brilliant alternative, with very little outside help – but he struggled at times to visualize that which did not naturally occur to his practical human mind. The idea of a holographic planet, controlled by machinery and the power of the mind, would not occur to him without an outside stimulus.

Spock had realized, upon the third visit the captain made to the very room in which he was imprisoned, that Kirk's human frustration and anger were increasing the thickness of the invisible and yet impenetrable wall between them – but he was powerless to change the fact, or to help his friend in any way, and so could only watch helplessly as the captain stormed about the room, fairly yelling at the elderly caretaker (who he had no idea was only a hologram), and finally beamed back to the _Enterprise _in a royal Kirkian fit.

Originally Spock had been imprisoned in a fanciful contraption of chains and padlocks conjured up from the entity's twisted consciousness. But once he had come to his senses and logically and calmly realized the restraints were entirely unreal, holographic images only, they had melted away - upon which the governing entity had become incensed and had used its projections to locate more durable natural restraints on the planet, mainly vines from the few native flora that actually existed.

If he believed in Luck, he would have said this was pure bad, for the vines were thicker than even his strength could break and flexible enough to be tightened far beyond the point of allowing him to break free. He had spent the better part of these four days endeavoring to work the back of the corporeal chair to which he had been bound off its seat and legs, but to no avail. And now that he was prepared to attempt the feat yet again, he realized the lack of water was beginning to tell in his stamina and strength.

After two straight hours of accomplishing nothing more than to drain his strength and further injure his left shoulder and wrist, which had been wrenched along with his ankle in his sole escape attempt three days previous, he saw the shimmering effect of the _Enterprise_'s transporter beams.

Jim Kirk was back for the fourth time, and he was _not_ happy.

As Spock was entirely powerless to do nothing more, and as frustration would only fuel the entity's strength, he decided the logical thing to do would be to simply sit back and, as the Terrans would put it, 'derive pleasure from the pyrotechnics.'

They soon started, and in fine form.

"I assure you, Captain Kirk, that none of your crew are –"

"I've had about enough of your lies, Mister!" a red-faced Jim was bellowing, one finger pointed in the face of the towering projection of elderly caretaker. "My Science teams have each scanned this planet, and they all concur – you've got Vulcan life-sign readings, and they're coming from this compound! Now I want that man found, and I want him found _now_!"

"You have already searched the compound, Captain," the kindly hologram placated, smiling vacantly.

"Captain?" a Security man interjected in annoyance with the bland caretaker.

"Every inch of the place, Mister Kyle," Kirk snapped, gesturing with his phaser.

Watching the red-shirted Security teams scatter through the room, he noticed suddenly that they all looked extremely preoccupied…almost worried. Illogical as it sounded, apparently he had been _missed_ in the last four days, and not just by the two humans he allowed close enough to feel their somewhat embarrassingly human affection for him. It could have been the dehydration and exhaustion, or it could simply be because he was aware no one could see, but a small feeling of warmth flooded him at the sight of thirty or forty men scouring the compound (knowing the walls dividing the rooms were not real, he was able to see the entire area).

He almost - almost! - smiled to himself as he watched McCoy stop, glare grumpily at his tricorder, and then bang it experimentally against his fist three or four times before using it again.

Was it his imagination, or did the outline of the wall between him and the room thin ever so fractionally?

"I told you, Captain, your instruments will not work down on this planet," the caretaker was droning pleasantly.

"I _know_ that, you cold-blooded old coot..." McCoy growled, the accompanying profanity reaching Spock's keen hearing despite its more quiet vocalization under the physician's breath.

"All right," Kirk was saying, his voice in that deceptively quiet tone that spelled incoming disaster for anyone caught in its path. "You've been less than forthright with me, and I want some answers. You keep talking about this 'leader' of yours – and we haven't seen him and you won't let us. Now either produce my First Officer, or take me to that man so I can question him. And I am not leaving this planet until I find him, do you hear me?"

_Captain, you are talking to a hologram – he does not even register your words and gives programmed responses_. He wished with more intensity than a Vulcan really should that Jim was telepathic and could hear him.

The anger and worry radiating off the human was only fueling the deception and the entity was already feeding from it – the wall imprisoning him was thickening, and the hologram growing more insistent that nothing was wrong and that they needed to return to their ship.

"Are you deaf, Mister?" Kirk finally lost his temper completely, glaring at the elderly man. "I am not leaving until I find where those Vulcan life-sign readings are coming from!"

_Persistent, your Captain,_ he heard the disembodied voice of the entity speaking inside the room with him, though invisible. He was silently grateful that the entity either did not know how, or did not care to, subject him to a fully mental invasion, as the prospect was highly unpleasant.

_He has always been so_, he agreed calmly, knowing any reaction would only serve to strengthen the entity's power.

_I sense great fear from him, and great worry. He speaks the truth; he will not leave until he knows your fate_.

_Quite possibly,_ he replied the truth warily, not knowing what to say that would make the completely illogical situation any better.

_I wish him to leave; his affection for you and his selflessness toward his crew disturb my peace of mind and drain my resources; I have need of peace if I am to study your more interesting mind properly. I require solitude, and if he must 'find' you in order to leave me to such solitude..._

_No!_ he had called before realizing the force behind the word, and now instantly quashed any reaction whatsoever toward the entity's intent.

The small but still entirely inexcusable flare-up of controlled panic had been noticed, however, and he heard mocking laughter ring soundlessly through his small prison.

_Oh, yes...Watch,_ the voice called back, leaving his mind once more in isolation.

* * *

"How the devil do you expect to find him without bein' able to use a tricorder, Jim?" he demanded, pulling the irate captain away from the poor innocent – or maybe not innocent, something about the old man creeped him out – caretaker. "We've already searched the place four times!"

"I don't know how, but we have to find him, Bones," the younger man muttered, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes; from the look of him, he'd hardly slept other than the occasions the physician had forcibly restrained him in Sickbay the last week. "Starfleet'll have my head if I just leave him here…violates the Prime Directive and regs about First Contact, and all that…"

"We both know that's not why you're about to blow the planet to kingdom come, Jim," he snorted, yanking open a closet door which had been hidden by a colorful tapestry. "What're you gonna do if they order you to declare him lost and get on with the mission? We're already two days overdue to rendezvous with the _Tokyo_ in the next system for personnel exchange."

"I'll tell them I'm not leaving, that's what. Hey Johnson!" the captain shouted, waving at the Security man who passed in a cross-corridor. "Any sign?"

"None, sir!"

"Carry on, then! Bones, I'm not leaving him here, and if the Fleet wants to court-martial me for it then they darn well can! If you can't be more helpful than telling me my duty when I already know what it is then go search with Scotty or someone else!"

He sighed and counted as the younger man stormed off down the corridor. Two, three…right about now.

"Sorry, Bones," came floating back, in a tone laced with exhaustion and self-recrimination. "It's not your fault, and I…I'll just shut up now, okay?"

He smiled, because it wouldn't do either of them good to admit that he was actually worried about the Vulcan, and clapped the slumped shoulder. "C'mon. There's nothing in this section, and you didn't get any answers from Professor Strangeness back there. If you really think that room's the key, then let's double back and see what's happening when they're not expectin' us."

"Why, Doctor. You, take the subtle approach?"

"Move it, Jim, or would you like a very un-subtle kick in the pants?"

He was glad to see and hear a small laugh at that, but a minute later wished he'd never tried to be uplifting, for an Ensign, his face white as a sheet and his words tripping over each other in their haste, came flying down the corridor shouting for them both.

"Captain! Doctor McCoy – we've found him, sir," the man gasped painfully, drawing himself into a rough approximation of attention stance when Kirk snatched at his arm. "Doctor…Captain…you'd better hurry."

* * *

Spock amended his previous assessment that impatience was one of the most annoying of human characteristics or emotions that his human blood forced him to deal with; now he knew that the feeling of _helplessness_ was far, far worse. And, sensing it despite his iron will, the entity was taking great pleasure in the drama it was enacting as well as in taunting his mental state, forced as he was to watch every moment as if there were no barrier between the scene and his senses.

_Why must you do this?_ he attempted to reason with the creature, though knowing it was most likely futile. Logic had no place in horror, and certainly not of this magnitude. Any being which literally lived off of and from emotion could, by very definition, not be swayed by logic. _Is there no other way with which you can derive sustenance?_

_Sustenance? _Laughter echoed silently in the small prison. _This is for amusement, now. And to get your captain off my planet so that I may turn my attentions to something more diverting even than this._

He tried to block out the mocking laughter (and the implication that his own mental fate depended on Jim Kirk's persistence), but his attention was suddenly arrested and riveted by the scene unfolding on the other side of the wall. The Captain and McCoy had just rushed into the room close on the heels of the slight young man who had darted out immediately upon finding the hologram supposed to represent him.

His perfect memory would (unfortunately) never quite forget the look on Jim's countenance as he skidded to a halt, all the color in his usually flushed face draining and leaving it a sickly shade of grey.

White and shaken, McCoy pushed quickly past his shocked captain and knelt beside the blue-clad figure lying on the floor, half-hidden by a discarded tapestry and a small alcove that had been constructed minutes ago by the entity.

_It is not real_, he pleaded silently for the doctor to somehow deduce that fact from the convincing image. _It is an illusion, Doctor, a mirage only. It has no substance! Do you not think it odd that you searched this room four times without seeing the body until now?_

But the entity knew its playthings well, and was only growing stronger as the emotions in the room flared into a crescendo. Jim had shaken himself out of the initial shock and was dropping to one knee beside the physician, who was cursing his lack of a working tricorder and checking, less frantically now, for any sign of a heartbeat under the torn and green-bloodied blue tunic. Finally he looked up, met the golden eyes of his superior, and shook his head silently before dropping his gaze and closing his eyes.

The Captain's eyes widened in numb disbelief, and his lips parted slightly without making a noise. Behind them, the Security men stood stunned in varying stages of horrified shock, the expressions dismal enough that it surprised Spock – he rarely dealt personally with any of these men, and yet they all seemed to feel something amicable toward him.

But this was in peripheral retrospect, for he was forced for his own control's sake to look away from the captain; the naked grief, the lack of light in the usually animated eyes, was far too painful to maintain the sight of against his already battered mental shields.

_He will leave now,_ the entity spoke with complacent glee. _He has afforded much amusement to me._

He closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts, but opened them when McCoy spoke, his voice soft and shaken. "Jim? Jim, look at me…put your head between your knees or somethin' but don't faint on me!"

The Captain's face had lost all color, but regained some of it at a gentle shake from the physician, and he started as if coming out of a trance. Uncomprehending eyes flicked upward, and McCoy shook him again gently.

"Take a deep breath, Jim. That's it…again…there." The breaths were hitching, but functional, and the lines of strain on the physician's careworn face lightened slightly. "There we go."

The chirp of a communicator reached them; the channels had been sporadic and only worked once every few minutes due to some irregular atmospheric fluctuations. The Captain was apparently too stunned to take the instrument, and so the physician reached out and removed it from its holster.

"_Enterprise_, what is it?" he snapped into the instrument.

"Doctor…is zhe Captain there?"

"I'm…here, Mr. Chekov," Kirk finally managed through tightly compressed lips. "What is it?"

"Sir…" heavy hesitation, and a small burst of static before the young Russian's voice came through again. "Ve…ve just lost the Vulcan life-sign readings, sir…about three minutes ago. Keptin, I –"

"Understood, Ensign," Kirk snapped, and all but threw the communicator down to the discarded tapestry. His shoulders began to shake as the realization set in in a slow, chilling wave.

Hands descended on his arms, then slid around him as the doctor moved closer. "Jim, not in front of your crew –"

Watching helplessly, straining to free his hands which had been unconsciously clenched tightly this entire dialogue, Spock winced without even attempting to hide the motion as his captain seemed to crumple into the physician's arms, shaking violently enough to be seen across the room. He looked away, unable to continue watching as the Security men fanned out to form a protective circle around the two – three – in the center…

…and then he saw it.

As they moved, forming a ring and turning their backs on their captain to let him grieve in McCoy's support without being watched…the wall shook, shimmered visibly for a full two-point-three-one seconds before returning to its transparent opacity.

But it was noticeably thinner than before.

Spock stared at it, ensuring his calculations were correct, and then his eyebrows drew down in a frown. Interesting.

Before he could test his theory with his own actions, Jim was staggering to his feet, angrily raking his gold sleeve across his eyes and snatching up his communicator. McCoy turned after trying to say something and failing, and examined the holographic dead man more closely while the Captain tried to raise the ship.

_You see, they will leave you to me, and never know you are still here,_ the entity's mocking voice floated closer to him in the small prison.

_That is yet to be seen,_ he returned calmly. _You do not know James Kirk as well as you think…and if I am correct, you do not know me either._

Sharp, pained swearing drew his attention on the other side, and the wall thickened another eighth of an inch. The Captain slammed the communicator shut. "Communications are out again," he growled, pinching his forehead with one trembling hand.

"We can't beam up to the ship, Captain, until they're restored, unless we use the emergency pattern boosters," a subdued Lt. Kyle reminded them all gently. "What are your orders in the meantime, sir?"

"Even if we could beam up, I'm not leaving here until I find out who ki-who's responsible for this," Kirk said in a fierce whisper, obviously grateful that no one commented on the break in his voice halfway through.

_As I said, you do not know Jim Kirk_, he took a slightly human pleasure in reminding the entity, whose surprised consternation was palpable in the silence.

But his eyes were drawn back to McCoy's lined face, old beyond its years from too many missions like this one, for the eyes had widened into two blue blurs and then narrowed again. "Jim," he snapped, pulling absently at the captain's trouser leg. "Come down here a minute."

"Bones, I – I can't –"

"Do it, Captain!" the physician snapped with surprising force.

He raised an eyebrow and listened, aware of the growing unease of the entity that persisted in torturing them.

Kirk bent down, hesitantly placing a gentle hand on the dark hair and then drawing back as if unable to do more. "What is it, Bones?" he whispered dully.

"Jim, don't you see something very wrong with this picture?" McCoy asked quietly.

"My first officer and closest friend is _dead_, and you ask that?" the man demanded furiously.

He blinked, startled at the free admission – he had not realized the captain held him in such obvious high regard…

The CMO was glaring murder. "Don't take your anger out on me, _Captain_! Answer the question – _look_ at him!"

"I…wait…" A frown line formed between the sandy brows, and he settled into a more comfortable position, cradling the limp head on one arm as he looked. "Bones…the position of that wound…"

"Exactly, Jim," McCoy replied, folding his arms and looking over the body at his captain. "This is a wound from a sharp, wide-bladed knife, and it's penetrated the chest cavity. On a human, it would mean instant death; no cauterization, bleed-out in ten seconds if death wasn't instantaneous from the heart being impaled."

"But…his heart's not in his chest cavity, Bones," the captain whispered slowly, and Spock suddenly felt the small ray of hope that had lingered in the human half of his mind burst into light – he had been correct; this entity was not all-knowing. While he had somehow known of Spock's copper-based blood, he had not been aware of his physiological makeup. That might just be their salvation.

"Precisely, Jim. This wound would have killed a human, but it wouldn't have killed a Vulcan because their hearts are God knows where," the physician stated, frowning darkly. "With rigor mortis setting in so fast, as you can see from the lack of blood around him, that means death occurred in a matter of seconds."

"But…that wouldn't be possible," Kirk protested blankly.

"I am aware of that, Captain." A pointed look across the limp form. "This wound didn't kill him…or else it _couldn't_ have killed him."

_Yes, McCoy! Follow that thread to its logical end_, he begged silently. The entity had fled, no doubt driven away by the power of the hope he had permitted into his mind and therefore his prison. If he could use that to his advantage, and couple it with his earlier conclusions…

Jim was lowering his hologram's head back to the floor, rolling up one end of the tapestry to place under it. "If…if that wound didn't – couldn't – kill him, then what the devil did?" he whispered.

"I'm not certain he _is_ dead, Jim," McCoy muttered, checking further on the body. "I'm…I've got a weird feeling that this is human anatomy, not Vulcan. Have to have a scanner to make sure, but…isn't it fishy to you that none of our equipment will work here despite there being no reason for it?"

The dull, dazed eyes flicked into life, angry life. "As if someone doesn't want us analyzing anything?"

"Convenient, isn't it?"

"Too convenient." The Captain scrambled to his feet, looking angrily about. "What do you mean, you're not sure he's dead – you think he's still alive and you just can't tell without a scanner?"

McCoy glanced up. "No, this body is dead all right." He looked back down, and then apparently decided something and reached for his medikit.

"What're you – Bones!"

"Shut up for a second, Jim," the physician muttered, making use of the laser scalpel he'd removed from the kit.

"You can't just mutilate –"

_Yes, Doctor, yes!_ Spock caught the smile just in time before it became visible and eternally shamed him.

"Just as I thought," McCoy harrumphed loudly, standing to his feet and squaring off against his captain.

"What?" the man nearly shouted.

"That's not Spock – it's not even a Vulcan body, Captain." A grin broke out across the rugged features, glowing like sunshine after a hailstorm. "The organ placement of the poor devil is human, not Vulcan. I oughtta know, Jim. _It's not him_."

Kirk's eyes were wide. "It's not?"

"Definitely not," the physician assured, cleaning his hands off. "The blood's green all right, but that anatomical structure is 100% human. No chance in the universe that..._thing_, is Spock. I dunno what it is, but it's not Vulcan."

The hazel eyes fluttered closed for a moment, hiding their owner's emotions from the room – but the wall suddenly wavered again, as it had before, and shook slightly as if being blown in a high wind. He raised an eyebrow, and projected a test thought against it.

It fluttered once more, and still again at the huge overjoyed smiles that broke out on the fifteen Security men's faces, mirroring the one radiating from the Captain himself.

_Fascinating_.

_No! _The entity screamed suddenly within his prison, as the wall shook again under the force of what Spock now realized was the opposite spectrum of emotion: love, hope, and joy. Evidently, those were far more powerful a force than fear and hatred; and their power reacted to the entity as anti-matter to matter – producing an explosive anti-force, and a formidable weapon.

_As I said, you know neither of us as well as you believe you do_, he answered quietly, calmly. _I believe, if my calculations are correct, that in a very few minutes your energies will have been entirely neutralized by the emotions these humans are radiating. You will not be able to keep up the façade of this compound and all it contains indefinitely._

The entity gave a wail of answering dismay, and he caught the fleeting impression of its retreat to regroup and regain its strength before it vanished again from his prison.

A small scream from a yeoman slanted his attention back to the room beyond.

"Captain!" The blonde young woman pointed at the floor, one hand over her mouth.

Kirk and the CMO whirled round, and stared – for the body which had lain there was gone, as was the alcove and the tapestry.

"…Yeah, I don' think that was Spock," McCoy drawled after a moment of stunned silence.

"Then I want to know what it was, and what the devil is going on here," Kirk snapped furiously. "This kind of prank is the sickest, most twisted thing I've ever encountered, and –"

_It is no prank, Captain,_ he endeavoured experimentally to project the thought, but it struck the wall and rebounded, as the barrier had been thickened by the flare of anger from the incensed human. _Control, Jim…calm him, Doctor. _

"Calm down, Jim," the physician growled in his usual fashion after recovering from a crisis – snapping like a Thoracian jumping turtle at anyone brave enough to so much as look at him. "Gettin' mad isn't going to get us anywhere. We need to figure out what that _was_, first."

"A dummy, do you suppose, like the ones on the shore leave planet?" a Security man offered timidly.

"No, because it just vanished without a trace; there's no trap door here or anything."

"More importantly, why would someone…want to create a dummy or whatever it was, of our missing First Officer?" Kirk was back to his usually controlled self, pacing in a tight circle with one hand cupped over his chin in deep thought. "Why would they want us to supposedly find him, dead?"

"You said it yourself, Captain," McCoy pointed out. "You said we wouldn't leave until we found him."

"And that crazy professor guy kept trying to get us to leave!" Kyle interjected, his eyes lighting up in remembrance.

_Yes, gentlemen, yes! _Spock felt a surge of pride in the quickness of the humans' deductions. If they would only follow that to its conclusion!

But Kirk seemed to be still fixated, somewhat understandably, on the apparition that they had been subjected to, and he suddenly halted in his pacing, frowned in deep concentration, and then whirled to face his men.

"If that wasn't a dummy, and it wasn't really Mr. Spock, gentlemen…then the only other explanation is that it was some sort of image – a hologram, if you will, or someone able to twist our thoughts into reality, with or without outside help. Do you remember Trelane?"

"Ugh, how could we forget the little brat," McCoy muttered, rolling his eyes ceiling-ward.

"If he could create that scenario, then who's to say whatever the sentience is on this planet isn't doing the same?" Kirk demanded eagerly, his mind firing on all thrusters now. "That would explain the odd readings we got from the planet, no life-signs and supposedly uninhabited but the Science team finding this compound when they beamed down."

_Yes, Captain, good! Continue that thought…_

"Then…we just thought we saw Spock's body – or what this…entity, thought we would recognize as Spock's body?" McCoy asked incredulously.

"Exactly!" The Captain stabbed a finger at the air. "I said we wouldn't leave until I found him, and so this…force, whatever you want to call it, conjured him up for us to see! It knew what he looked like, either from our minds or from seeing him before, even got his blood type right – but it didn't know his anatomical structure because even your mind doesn't hold all those details because he's never gotten a full physical in your Sickbay, Bones!"

"So it was an illusion, you mean, Captain?" Kyle asked, cocking a head to one side.

"It's possible, isn't it?" the man spread his arms, gesturing at their surroundings. "For that matter, none of this might really exist!"

_That is it, Jim – now concentrate upon that theory,_ Spock pleaded silently, exhaustion and dehydration entirely forgotten, and he renewed his efforts to free himself of the flexible vines that had bound him in that position for so long. _ We are fast running out of time before the entity can return with the fading of the emotional euphoria you were projecting…_

"Um…but how do we figure out what's an illusion and what's not – and how do we find where Mr. Spock really is, Captain?" an Ensign asked.

"If stuff is an illusion, then not believing in it will dissolve it or at the least neutralize its physical effects, right?" McCoy asked, remembering their run-in with the Melkotians.

"Yes, but we've no way of fully disbelieving what we see. We've got to figure out what this…intelligence is, though, and why it wants us to leave Spock here," Kirk replied pensively, resuming his pacing.

"We've already seen that it's not a nice entity," McCoy drawled. "Making a guy think anyone – even that pointy-eared walking database – is dead isn't very sporting, to say the least."

Kirk smiled thinly. "No, it's not a benevolent entity, and it would take both machinery and incredible mental strength to conjure up what we see here, as well as to block transmissions when it feels like it – like our communicators, and our tricorders not functioning. I'll wager that whatever it is can control the atmospheric conditions - something we've encountered before,."

"And it was able to mask Spock's life-signs when we finally found a body," McCoy supplied.

"Exactly. It must operate on some sort of psychic level…but what?"

_Ironic,_ he thought, slumping back and closing his eyes to gather his waning strength, _that those emotions they prize so highly should be the last that those emotional beings would suspect from a malevolent force._

The chirp of a communicator broke the silence, and Kirk pounced upon it.

"Captain, Scott here," came the voice of their Chief Engineer, accompanied by a burst of interference, "Kin ye clean that up a bit, Lieutenant? Captain, when we finished searchin' the compound we beamed back aboard in the window we had – but there's a heavy atmospheric storm buildin', and the ship canna withstand the ionic bombardment that's shure t'come up! Y'have to return to the ship now, sir, or ye may not get another chance for days!"

"Beam up the landing party immediately with the exception of myself, and get the ship out of danger," Kirk snapped, business-like on the instant.

McCoy tapped him on the shoulder, and ignored the glare of death. "Make that two exceptions, Scotty."

"Sir, you canna stay there; the storm could verra well maroon ye there with no contact and Lord knows what else waitin' for ye – and with no provisions –"

"Energize, Mr. Scott, and get my people out of there!" the captain barked sharply.

"Aye, sir…energizin' now, Captain," came the resigned whisper.

Kyle protested, as per regulations, but was promptly overruled and was still spluttering when the transporter took him, leaving only one group. Spock watched, still trying desperately to free himself and only succeeding in further damaging his wrist, as the last group of six disappeared.

"Tha's it, sir," Scott's voice traveled loud and clear through the wall, which had thinned perceptibly. Interesting. "Please come up, Captain – ye know Mr. Spock wouldna want ye to stay in a danger zone like tha-"

"Scotty, I'm not leaving here until I find him; even if he's not hurt it's been four days and he's bound to need attention when we do find him," Kirk replied softly. "Now get my ship out of there, Mister. That's an order. Return for us when the storm clears."

"Aye, sir," came the reluctant answer. "Scott out."

"And if the storm doesn't break, Captain?" McCoy asked quietly. "What if this intelligence is causing it, and it won't let us go?"

The captain folded his arms. "Then we'll probably starve to death along with Spock…if we can find him in time. You should have gone back, Bones. I did order you to."

"So put me on report, why don't you, if we survive this?" the man shot back flippantly, and watching their interaction Spock felt a surge of pleased surprise that the physician had chosen to remain.

Suddenly in front of him the wall shimmered again –and as the Captain clapped the physician warmly on the shoulder and said something too low for Spock to overhear, it shimmered again.

But this time, both humans had been facing the wall.

McCoy's eyes bugged for a moment, and he squinted at the tapestries hanging there. "Did you see that, Jim?"

"Mm? I saw nothing other than your insubordination," the captain teased, grinning.

"I would've sworn that wall there…it moved, just now," the doctor declared, glaring at it – unwittingly looking straight into the helpless dark eyes which were willing him to examine it further.

_It did, Doctor; it did. _If only they would realize!

"Moved?" Kirk's eyebrow rose in a fair approximation of Spock's you-are-such-weird-humans-I-have-no-idea-why-I-bother look. "Like…moved, how?"

"Like a…dang it, what does it remind me of…" They moved toward the wall as the physician growled under his breath, thinking hard. Suddenly he snapped his fingers and jabbed one of them into the gold shirt. "Like a cloaking device when it's being disengaged – that rippling effect after it's cloaked, you know? How the stars are distorted behind the field?"

_Well done, Dr. McCoy!_ Spock's pleasant surprise at the physician's unprecedented brilliance caused another ripple in the wall, and both humans stared at it wide-eyed.

"Yeah…I saw it that time, Bones," Kirk breathed slowly, walking toward it with his hands outstretched. "If this whole place is an illusion…and all this time I thought this room was somehow the center of everything…maybe I can – oof. Ow. Well, it's solid enough, apparently."

Spock sighed tolerantly through the gag that had been placed around his mouth days ago by the over-compensating entity, frowning at the dilemma before them. _However the wall is constructed, it is most definitely solid to physical touch until it is destroyed_, he mused as the human rubbed the heels of his hands where they'd smacked solidly into the wall. _Do not give up, Captain._

"If whatever the force is that controls this planet can create a lifelike Vulcan hologram, then I wouldn't be surprised if half the stuff we see isn't real," Kirk was saying, placing a cautious hand on the wall, unknowingly only ten inches from his First Officer's drawn face.

"Think a phaser'll cut through it?" McCoy offered practically.

Before Spock could register the slight dismay at the idea of their destroying the wall in that manner and most likely hitting him with the phaser beams, the captain shook his head. "We don't know what's back there – and for all we know the projections could be protected. Phasers might only be reflected; we might get hurt or hurt someone else. There's got to be another way!"

_There is, Captain, if I am correct_, he tried once more to project the suggestion but it rebounded again from the barrier, obviously reinforced on his side against telepathic persuasion.

And then he heard it – the derisive laughter that signified his malevolent captor had returned, no longer held at bay by the emotions of affection and protectiveness that had driven it from the room during the last few minutes.

"Jim, look!" McCoy suddenly shouted, spinning around as the entryway to the room filled with what Spock knew was another holographic image – again, of himself.

Dismayed, he felt the entity's presence wrap around his small prison in amusement at the situation. _Do not believe, Captain_, he pleaded silently through the barrier. _It is unreal!_ He felt a sense of loss as the Captain, eyes alight, bounded across the room toward the tall figure.

"Spock! Are you all right? We've been looking for you for four days!" Kirk exclaimed, grasping the blue sleeve in his relief and joy.

_Producing these particular emotions will not strengthen you,_ he observed to the entity as the wall shimmered again. McCoy, who had still been frowning at it, endearingly mystified, raised his eyebrows and scowled in concentration.

_A small sacrifice for those which are to come,_ the entity returned with an unaffected and malicious aura of amusement.

The hologram of his own body looked down at his captain and nodded slowly. "I am perfectly functional, Jim…though slightly disoriented. I have only slight recollections of anything past the beaming up of the science team."

"You never materialized; Scotty said your pattern was muted suddenly, and he left you on the planet rather than trying to beam you up and only getting half of you," Kirk replied, releasing the hologram's arm and rubbing his perspiring forehead in utter relief. "Do you have any idea where you've been?"

"Impressionistic memories only, Jim; there is a force here, an entity, which has been communicating with me…"

"Wait just a darn minute," McCoy snapped, folding his arms and staying a safe distance away. "If you've been awake enough to talk to this…entity, then why didn't we find you the four times we tore this place apart? Jim practically hazed it to its foundations and we never found you."

"Perhaps I did not wish to be found, McCoy," the hologram said with a small shrug.

"And since when do you refer to Jim as anything other than 'Captain' when making an official report of your whereabouts, or in front of me?" the physician demanded shrewdly, and this time he did not bother to restrain the small smile that twitched at his lips. McCoy's suspicious nature was paying off for them all, now; the entity's dismay was increasing around him. Spock was further surprised at the human's perception, for it was entirely true; there was an instinctive reversion to respectful title anytime they discussed ship's business even unofficially, one which even he did not consciously realize he adopted until the physician spoke just now.

Kirk took a cautious step back, suspicion suddenly hardening his eyes. "Yes…" he mused slowly, "and…I've never heard you call Bones anything other than _Doctor_…"

The false Spock took a placating step forward, hands outstretched in a gesture of peace. "I…have not been myself these last few days, sir," it said quietly. "The lack of sustenance no doubt has impaired my –"

"That tears it," McCoy snapped, drawing his phaser and aiming it over his superior's head. "Four days _isn't_ that long for a Vulcan to go without eating, and even if it were, that particular fool Vulcan's too blamed stubborn to ever admit it in front of me or you, Jim – and we both know it. Back away from him, Captain."

_As I said, you do not know us_, he pointed out to the entity with a touch of forgivable wicked amusement.

"Spock?" the Captain asked softly, searching the angular features for some sign that his gut instinct, rudely awakened, was wrong. One hand clutched his phaser, but had not yet brought it into firing position.

"Get back, Jim!" McCoy snapped, louder this time. "It's another hologram!"

The barrier between him and his friends shook visibly, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. _Their disbelief and desire to protect each other do not suit your purposes,_ he observed.

_They will regret defying me, as will you!_ The entity screamed loudly enough in his mental communication to give him a ringing of the ears, and swirled out of the prison in a malicious display of anger.

"Captain," the hologram remonstrated, following the shorter man's movements as he began to back away, advancing step for step "It is not logical to doubt the evidence of your senses."

"Stay away from him, I'm warnin' you!" the physician called, glaring at the two figures retreating toward the wall.

"You have no reason to be afraid of me, Jim," the calm voice was his, and yet not – but the difference was so subtle it was of no wonder that the humans could not detect the slight indication of non-sentience.

"Oh, I've got plenty of reason," the captain managed to laugh slightly despite being backed up against a wall. "You killed me once, remember?"

He winced at that memory, though he knew it was uttered as a test of the image rather than from any real desire to bring up the past they had agreed never to discuss after the events on Vulcan.

"I have no wish to harm you, Captain, but you must understand about this planet and its inhabitants," the hologram stated calmly.

There was a small clatter as the captain's boots hit the side wall, and he glanced semi-panicked from side to side as the figure advanced. Tightening his lips, he finally drew himself up straight, radiating authority - every inch the Starfleet captain and nothing more in that moment.

"_Back off_, Mr. Spock – and that _is_ an order," he snapped in the only tone that would make even McCoy shut up instantly while on duty.

"I cannot, sir," the hologram replied coolly. "You must be made to understand."

A flash of pain shot through Spock's damaged wrist as he fought the restraints with more strength that he could truly afford to expend, as the entity's intentions became quite clear. One hand reached toward the captain's pale face in obvious intent. The amber eyes widened in disbelief and a flash of instant terror.

He struggled desperately to free himself, despite knowing that even getting free of his bonds would never allow him entry into the room in time even if he could pass through the barrier – this despicable horror _could not_ be permitted! It was unthinkable!

"Don't…" Jim was gasping, shaking, trying to turn away but unable to move. "Please…"

Spock gave the vines one last desperate wrench, and succeeded no more than he had before. Slumping down in utter defeat, he hung his head and could only watch the unspeakable happen, nausea rising in his deprived stomach.

But he had not counted upon the presence of mind, or the sympathetic and empathetic horror, of Leonard McCoy. A blinding flash of green, and the hologram cried out in simulated pain before dissolving into nothingness.

The Captain's eyes were wide with shock and fear, but they calmed at the sight of his CMO, holding the unfamiliar weapon at arm's length, an expression of dismay on his face.

"That was set to heavy stun, Jim, I swear…not to disrupt," he whispered, the idea of killing a man – even one they both knew was unreal – abhorrent to him.

Sweat stood out on the younger man's forehead, and he took a long, shuddering breath. "It wasn't real, Bones…you just dissolved a hologram I think," he managed, pale and shaken. "And…thanks."

"Sure," the physician muttered, eyeing the weapon distastefully; while he had the necessary training, he rarely had used one for obvious reasons.

Relief suffused Spock's mental pathways, pushing out all semblance of logic for several moments; the unspeakable had narrowly been averted…if it had happened…

_These humans are more stubborn than I had anticipated,_ the entity's voice admitted from somewhere nearby.

His attention was grasped by the sudden shaking of the barrier between them, but when he concentrated, pushing the relief to the back of his mind, it regained its solid state again.

But this time both humans had seen the wavering, and in an instant were back continuing their examination. Kirk's face was still pale as death, but his brows were knitted in angry determination. "Do you suppose when we destroy these holograms, stop believing in them, it weakens whatever the force is that controls this place?" he pondered aloud.

"No idea, but we've got to do something – I don't want to have to keep trying to figure out if the Spocks it's throwin' at us are real or not!" the CMO grumbled. "One is bad enough for any man…we don't need three of 'em."

"Especially ones like that," Kirk agreed with a hint of a rueful smile. "I think we need to concentrate on getting this wall down; everything seems to hinge on it and we did see it flicker. Something has to weaken it…but what?"

McCoy's face scrunched up in thought, one hand cupped over his chin and the elbow resting in his opposite palm. "Well…if the whole shebang is controlled mentally, then I'd guess everything's attuned to brain-wave patterns," he ventured hesitantly; making educated guesses about alien technology was Spock's forte, not his.

_Good…good!_

"Brain-wave patterns," Kirk repeated thoughtfully. "As in…one man's pattern frequency?"

"Nooo…" the physician drew the syllable out, frowning. "Every man's brain patterns are different, and we've been able to make this thing weaker at least. It has to be something else…something common to both of us, and whatever's behind this. But still a mental state."

"Just general thoughts, then?"

"Possibly. Have you tried thinkin' real hard about it coming down?" was the reply, accompanied by a smirk.

Hazel eyes rolled ceiling-ward, but a nod followed. "Let me see if I can remember those meditation techniques Spock tried to beat into my head months ago," he muttered, rubbing one hand over his eyes and then closing them.

Giving up on freeing himself for the moment, the corners of Spock's mouth twitched at the human's words; teaching a man of James Kirk's dynamic and slightly spastic personality to meditate in the Vulcan fashion was more difficult (and as potentially explosive) than containing anti-matter without a force-field. It had been the first time in his life Spock had ever actually considered a goal entirely hopeless – but even he must admit, it had been amusing at the same time.

The captain's eyes remained closed, and to his surprise the wall in front of him thinned fractionally; small progress, but progress. Evidently the desire and determination to accomplish the feat were more effective than simply wishing for it.

However, the actual wall itself remained stable and motionless, despite a good five minutes of Kirk's attempts to 'think' the wall down.

"Any progress?" the captain asked through clenched teeth, cracking one eye open a slit to peek at the wall.

McCoy tried not to laugh at the disgruntled expression. "Nope."

Kirk swore, a rare explosion that made both him and the physician jump in surprise. Spock sighed inwardly as the wall regained an eighth of an inch of its previous thickness with the expulsion of frustration.

"What is it then, Bones? Thinking at it doesn't work…what made it waver before?"

"I dunno…I wasn't paying attention."

"Not good enough, Bones! We have to find Spock before more of those holograms come after us," the captain snapped determinedly, standing back to glare at the wall with his hands on his hips. "I'm not leaving this room until this thing comes down!"

_You can do this, Jim. You can do it…Think carefully…_

"Maybe I should take a look around, see if I can find that 'entity' the hologram was talking about," McCoy was saying uneasily, casting a glance about the room as if expecting holographic Spocks to come flying out of every corner.

"No," Kirk replied decisively. "I'm not taking any chances on losing you too, Bones. We stick together."

He nodded in pleased relief as the wall shimmered again; surely they could see the solution now – and none too soon, as he was noticing an increasing disability to fully concentrate from combination pain and dehydration. He had been unable, or rather unwilling, to enter even a light healing trance to deal with his injuries, for the simple reason that while in one his mind would be unprotected as well as his body from the entity; he could do nothing to help himself until they returned to the _Enterprise_.

"Jim…"

"I saw it," Kirk replied, frowning as he recalled exactly what he'd said just before the wall wavered. "What'd I do?"

"You said we were gonna stick together. But we've been doin' that and nothing's happened so far." The physician scowled, trying to think.

"No, that's not what I said!" Kirk suddenly exclaimed, turning to his friend. "I said I wasn't about to lose you too, Bones!"

"While I appreciate the sentiment, what the heck does that have to do with it?" the doctor demanded irritably.

"And before, when it did it before – wasn't it right after you refused to return to the ship?"

"Yeeesss…but I don't see –"

"I have a hunch, Bones," the captain said excitedly, and Spock felt a streak of hope at the sudden fire lighting in the man's eyes – he had seen that look before, and it was the reason the crew of the _Enterprise_ would follow James Kirk to hell and back – and had, several times – because it signified the type of wild hunch that pulled victory out of bitter defeat all at the last moment.

"You and your hunches. Look, one time the thing shook and neither of us had even said anything!"

"Don't you see, that means _someone else_ was trying to get the thing down too?" Kirk expostulated, the words spilling out so quickly in his excitement that they blurred together.

Blue eyes widened to twice their normal size. "You don't think Spock's back there, do you?"

"He might be! And if my hunch is right, he's legitimately not capable of getting himself out of there," Kirk answered with a fond smile.

Ruefully, Spock was forced to agree; he simply was incapable of producing the necessary positive emotions that could break down the barrier – not unaided, at any rate.

Jim was in fine form now, on semi-solid ground which was rapidly growing more solid as he warmed to his 'hunch.' "Bones…what were you and I _feeling_ at those two times we mentioned a minute ago?"

"Feeling? I dunno about you, but I was worried."

"No, no, we were worried before that and nothing happened. Heck, I've been worried sick for four days and nothing ever happened before."

"Well…I think I was feeling…loyal, I guess, when you wanted me back on the ship," McCoy ventured hesitantly.

"And I was feeling determined to protect you, the second time," the captain agreed, eyes alight. "And I was remembering how much I've missed Spock these last few days."

McCoy was, in his own words, an 'old country doctor', but he was also a brilliant xenobiologist and those qualified for the degree were anything but slow; for this Spock was immeasurably grateful.

"Emotions…positive emotions," the physician breathed suddenly.

Kirk beamed.

The entity fled.

"Okay, think positive emotions, Bones," the captain said with a lop-sided smile.

"Um…yeah. Exactly how do y'think we can accomplish that, Captain?" came the dry rejoinder. "What, I have to hug you or something?"

Light laughter sent a wave of relaxation through Spock's tense muscles, and he allowed himself the luxury of ceasing his struggles; they were on the correct path now, and his strength would be better conserved for the event of the entity's return. In the meantime, he would do what he could; though insufficient emotionally, it might augment his friends' efforts (for that they were, and it was illogical to deny the truth) just enough to dissolve the barrier.

As if in agreement with that, the wall shimmered slightly, just a ripple.

"There, see that?" Kirk exclaimed. "Spock, if you can hear me, I need you to let loose whatever you can that can help us, okay?"

He raised an eyebrow; Vulcans did not, most certainly, 'let loose' with any emotions. Yet, there were a few permissible to the race, and it was those to which he turned his mind and all his remaining strength, what little there was left.

His thoughts, categorized neatly and succinctly in separate mental compartments, were quite easily located; he headed straight for the area of his mind which he reserved solely for those humans with which he had decided to defy Vulcan custom and live – and particularly a select few of those. This part of his mind was a place he cherished far more than a Vulcan should, but so secretively that even Jim rarely caught a glimpse of it, and only then if a mind-meld had been necessary for either a mission or simply to understand something in a short period of time.

Here he fastened onto the section of memories he most treasured – shore leave spent on Earth's Rocky Mountains, Jim teaching him how to ski and laughing when he broke the record at the resort by calculating trajectories and following them accordingly; the first time they had played chess in Rec Room One, and after four intense hours had looked up to find nearly the entire ship's company watching in silent fascination; one away mission where McCoy had fallen into a puddle containing iridescent blue mud and his face had matched his shirt for days afterwards; the look of amazement in the captain's bright eyes as his First testified stubbornly – and under obvious and illogical bias – at the court-martial years ago; the night after they returned from the Vians' experiments, and all three of them had somehow ended up in the privacy-locked Observation Deck, spending two hours talking quietly and then falling asleep under the starry windows.

All these and a few more he carefully extracted from their securely-locked compartments and gathered them in preparation to lend his efforts toward the battle being waged outside his invisible prison. The sacrifice of secure mental shielding was necessary, and while he would most likely regret the sudden emotional upheaval, certainly it was only logical to make such concessions when one was attempting to break free of a prison.

"I don't get it," McCoy was grumbling. "'S too much like Peter Pan – think happy thoughts of faith and trust an' pixie dust and all that."

"You got a better idea?" Kirk retorted.

"Um…no." A resigned sigh. "Okay, I'll think happy. How, exactly?"

The captain smiled, taking charge as easily as if he were on the Bridge, plotting strategy. "Think of your daughter, Bones…remember that first shore leave you let me tag along with you to Georgia?"

A gentle smile softened the worry-lines in the older man's face. "And I had to remind you she was barely eighteen and don't you dare get any ideas, yes I remember Jim." He laughed softly. "I think it was Spock she had the crush on, anyway, Lord knows why."

Kirk grinned. "And remember last year when we found that uncharted planet where the plants changed color? And Sulu kept staying up nights to figure out how until he fell asleep at the helm a week later –"

"And his nose hit the controls, almost piloting us into a supernova? Yeah, my blood pressure remembers that one real well," the physician chuckled. "I've never seen Spock move so fast to switch control to manual override."

They were both laughing now, and Spock nearly smiled himself as the wall thinned noticeably.

Almost unconsciously, the captain had drawn closer to his old friend, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Remember when you saved my nephew's life, Bones, and forgave me for yelling at you all those times I did when you didn't deserve my temper?"

The physician's face sobered, his eyes a soft cobalt. "You didn't mean any of it, Jim, and we both know that…I wish I'd have been able to do more."

"You did what you could, and more than anybody else would have, for Peter and for Spock," Kirk replied, smiling wistfully. "I don't know what we'd ever do without you, Bones…other than have some peace aboard ship come full-physical exam time…"

The captain ducked a swat to the back of the head, and laughter rang through the empty room.

The wall shimmered visibly, weakening under the strain, and Spock took a deep breath (as deep as he could manage, tied as tightly as he was to the chair). Emptying his mind of all caution regarding the sudden barrage of memories – for that was as close as he could get to emotions – he gathered them up and opened the door, so to speak, throwing them with all his formidable mental might at the barrier in an attempt to augment the strength from the other side.

Both humans could see the thing shaking now, fluttering weirdly like a banner ripped about in a high wind, and with one hand on McCoy's arm the captain instantly closed his eyes and drew on every thought he could conjure up of his time aboard the _Enterprise_ – the loyalty of his people, the lives they had saved under extreme circumstances, the reconciliations he had been instrumental in accomplishing, the friends he had lost but the ones who had been made to surpass their places and dull the pain of loss. The protectiveness of his crew, the efficient teamwork of his command chain, the affection of his Bridge crew. The prickly tenderness of a crotchety country doctor, and the incredibly intense loyalty of a mysterious half-Vulcan - both of which completed his command and his life in a way he had yet to understand but was eternally grateful for.

Still hidden behind the weakening wall, Spock felt the presence of the entity lurking, furious at its banishment due to the emotions waging war against its hold, and knew their time was short. Gathering his thoughts, he concentrated on the few emotions that were permissible to Vulcans – loyalty, foremost, to one man and one ship; and after that, friendship, of the deep and abiding kind that was the only acceptable form of a non-marriage relationship in Vulcan culture. Only those two, but the power and force behind them a thousand times stronger than a mere human's would have been.

Throwing his entire mind behind the force of those thoughts, Spock reached out and mentally felt Jim doing the same. With one final surge of his waning mental strength he met the force of the captain's determined power and the two merged in a dynamic flash of gold and blue light.

McCoy threw up his free arm to shield his eyes, from somewhere they all three heard an outraged scream – and then the barrier broke, shattered into a hundred invisible fragments before their astonished gazes.

Spock found himself blinking placidly at his two fellow officers.

For a minute they both gaped at him, staring around the room in disbelief at the small paradoxically transparent and yet opaque cage in which he'd been imprisoned practically in plain sight.

Finally he raised a pointed eyebrow, and the captain jolted into action, dashing across the shattered barrier (they could all three see the shards of what looked like glass lying on the floor now) with an exclamation of relief.

"Spock!"

"Spock, are y'all right?" McCoy demanded, showing remarkable common sense in removing the gag before asking.

He coughed briefly as his airway was cleared, and decided a nod would be sufficient for now. The sharp whine of a phaser on low power reached his ears just before the smell of burning vine filled the room; he felt a flash of amusement at Kirk's utter impatience with anything and everything obstructing his path.

"What happened, Spock?" The demand was quick, imperative, but he could feel the relief and worry emanating from the man as he finished slicing through the vines around his hands and moved to the front.

He started to speak, and paused to clear his unused vocal chords. "There is an entity on this planet, Captain, a malevolent one – it creates most of what you see solely through the power of its mind alone. It…took me by surprise, just after the Science team beamed aboard, and has imprisoned me here. I was unable to free myself of its power," he finished calmly, but with a touch of ruefulness.

McCoy was examining him closely, handicapped only slightly without the aid of his tricorder. "Shoulder and wrist?" he asked pointedly.

"They, as well as my left ankle, but are perfectly manageable, Doctor."

"There," the captain grunted, gently tearing the last of the vines away. "Why vines, Spock?"

"They are the only flora native to this planet, Captain," he explained tiredly. "Anything the entity could conjure from its imagination I was able to discount as unreal and escape from."

"Right, let's get you out of here at least," Kirk said briskly, hesitating a fraction of a second before making a to-heck-with-it gesture and taking one thin arm over his shoulders. "Could you hear us?"

"Affirmative. I have no doubt the storm necessitating the Enterprise's leaving orbit was caused by the entity; it is at present held at bay by your rampant positive emotions but it is quite angry," he managed before turning all his concentration to his legs not giving way beneath him due to stiffness rather than physical weakness.

"Watch that ankle!" McCoy yowled from behind them. "And he's probably really numb too – and dehydrated, and Lord knows what else!"

His shorter captain was red-faced and perspiring with the effort of keeping him on his unsteady feet, but staunchly held his ground. "Can you walk, Spock?"

"Affirmative…with your assistance, if you would," he finally admitted, wishing his head would not reel quite so dizzyingly from a lack of fluids and the mental strain of the last few minutes.

"Bones…see if you can find some water, there were a bunch of containers and stuff in the next room," Kirk said quietly, jerking his head in the opposite direction. "Doctor, use your phaser if you have to, and don't hesitate," he called after the physician, who nodded and hurried out. "Right, then let's get you over to that couch-thing, Spock."

"I believe, from the shape and apparent era of the furnishings, it is the ancient article known on Terra as a 'divan,' Captain."

"Whatever it is, I hope it's real enough to sit on," the other replied cheerfully, moving slowly into the main room. "Watch the shards from that wall…whatever it was. Spock, I'm sorry it took so long for us to figure it out. If that thing's been after you this whole time I can't imagine the mental strain, and I sure didn't help things by broadcasting my anger all over the place, did I?"

Spock concentrated, for it was taking far too much effort to do so, on moving his feet rather than giving in to the unaccountable urge to just collapse into Jim's fully welcoming grip. "You performed admirably, Captain," he managed between a quick inhalation of breath. "The entity is quite powerful. I…" The floor rocked slightly, and he closed his eyes, staggering against the shorter man.

A strong arm wrapped tighter around his waist, and the grip on his undamaged wrist clenched. "Easy…almost there," he heard the worried murmur before they reached the furniture. "There we go."

The furniture appeared to be real enough, though he knew the soft cushions probably would not last once the entity could return to the room; possibly Jim's open concern could keep it at bay for a few more minutes. He felt a pillow being pushed under his head and something warm and soft flopped hurriedly over him, and opened his eyes to see the hovering features of his captain, drawn and worried.

"I am well, Captain," he assured stoically. "Merely dehydrated approximately 12.5 percent below the average for a Vulcan; my wrist and ankle appear to be sprained but not fractured, and I have been under considerable mental strain from the contact with the entity. Other than that I am perfectly functional."

The human's face was darkening with anger at the list of injuries, and he hastily reached out to place a hand on the gold sleeve. "The creature feeds on anger, hatred, rage, Captain – you must calm yourself if we are to hold it at bay!" he insisted earnestly.

Kirk's eyes widened in realization. "I was right then – positive or negative emotions."

"Affirmative." Weary, he laid his head back on the pillow and allowed his eyes to close for a moment only.

"That's why you couldn't break yourself out, being Vulcan as you are," he heard the sympathetic whisper. "What a horrible prison."

"It was unpleasant, but not especially horrific," he returned without opening his eyes. "Merely…exasperating."

He heard a small chuckle. "Are you warm enough?" came the soft question.

"Quite, thank you."

Pounding footsteps caused his eyes to flick open in time to see the captain scrambling to a standing position, phaser at the ready; but it was only McCoy, rushing back with an ornate decanter of some liquid.

"I dunno what it is, but it's not alcoholic," he said dubiously. "I don't trust the water on this planet, not with a highly magnetized atmosphere like this. I think this's fruit juice of some kind; tastes like it anyhow."

"Well, we'll give it another two minutes to see if you keel over and die, and if not then you can have some, Spock," Kirk said with a small grin.

McCoy rolled his eyes. "How're we doin', Spock?" he asked, crouching down close.

"I am as well as can be expected, Doctor, with your face hanging so close over my head," he returned with a small not-truly-smirk.

Jim stifled a laugh into the nearest cushion and attempted his communicator again, out of force of habit. Naturally, there was no response.

"Still out of range," he sighed. "Okay, get some of that juice down you, Spock, and let McCoy wrap that ankle and wrist – and then we've got to figure a game plan to survive until the Enterprise can come back for us."

"Jim, that would mean we must defeat the entity," he said tiredly, accepting McCoy's offer of a small cup. "It will not permit the ship back into orbit; therefore our only means of getting off this planet is to defeat it permanently."

"Not too much, and not too fast now," McCoy said briskly, wrapping a hand around the cup when it shook slightly. "That's it. Now what hurts worse, the ankle or the wrist?"

"I –"

"Dang it, just answer the blasted question, will ya?"

"Bones!" Kirk exclaimed, holding out a placating hand. "You can't go at it with him right now – that thing feeds on negative emotions!"

"What negative?" the CMO demanded. "I only yell at people I _like_, you know that."

"Yes, Doctor," he found the strength to drawl pleasantly. "But I doubt the entity can sense the intricate and complicated workings of your…unique emotional outlook."

"You are _so_ lucky I don't have a hypo of your favorite pain meds with me…"

"Gentlemen!"


	62. Desperate Times

**Title**: _Desperate Times_, or _the one in which I foist my own migraine off on poor Jim Kirk, stuck in the 1930s in New York before the advent of Imitrex and Vicodin_  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock  
**Word Count**:  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: absolutely shameless H/C, because there's not enough headache!fic out there in the world. Nothing more to see here. Spoilers for _City on the Edge of Forever_.  
**Summary**: see title; missing scene from CotEoF

* * *

It's been a long time since he really, truly, felt hatred for another human being. Pity, yes; anger, certainly – but the last time he actually and genuinely felt cold, murderous hatred for someone was many years ago, on a planet half-dead from famine and the despotism of a man who solemnly murdered four thousand people and sincerely believed himself in the right.

Since then, he's learned not to hate; a Starfleet officer can't afford to, because hatred is born of fear, and fear has no place in Starfleet exploration. He cannot be afraid of the unknown, and therefore cannot hate that which is different, simply because it is so. Even the most murderous of men, including those who have threatened the safety of his ship and his crew, he simply cannot afford to hate; because hatred makes a man careless of consequences, causes him to act irrationally due to uncontrolled emotion.

He sounds a little like Spock, he thinks with exhausted amusement, and maybe the Vulcans have just taken this excellent idea to a less logical extreme?

However, back to his original mental ramblings; it has been a very long time since he felt hatred for another person, decades at least. But now, he thinks he might just be approaching hatred for one particular person, the one who is solely responsible for his current uncomfortable surroundings, the entire lack of advanced medicine – and the migraine which is pounding against his skull, sharp and piercing under the glare of cheap electricity and murmur of grumpy tenements.

Bones is _dead_ when they find him, if his idiot CMO didn't get himself killed already in this harsh Old World.

The wooden _rreeeeeeeechhh_ of a creaking door being closed upstairs is an avalanche of sound in the quiet of the room, and his stomach immediately rebels. He inhales through his nose abruptly, slowly, deliberately, because in brutal honesty he simply can't afford to throw up right now; their cash on hand needs to be spent on other things than buying extra food. Spock needs gloves if he's going to be able to continue in the increasing cold, they both could use another set of clothes, and as for food and vitamins – that's next to impossible in this impoverished city. They can't take a chance on missing McCoy's arrival, just because the captain of the _Enterprise_'s brain decided to crash and refuse to reboot under the worst headache he's had in months.

The combination of poor nutrition, twelve-hour days of manual labor, very little sleep, and intense stress have amalgamated into what seems to be a knife stabbing deep into his head, not a throbbing pain but rather a constant, burrowing pressure, like a warp coil intermix chamber set to overload. The constant strain of searching for McCoy, of trying to while still trying to work for a living; the knowledge that cordrazine overdose has been fatal and Bones could just be dead somewhere out there; the awareness that everything depends on so many variables in space and time swirling together in just the right instant.

The knowledge that if he and Spock fail, then someone else will have to come behind them and try to figure out what went wrong, his entire crew one by one becoming stranded here, perhaps without ever finding them…

The only surprise to him should be that he hasn't worried himself into a migraine before _now_.

The white-hot pain only increases as someone somewhere in the building starts a rickety shower, producing a knocking and banging in the walls that makes him curl half-onto his side with both arms pressed tightly against his head and ears, trying desperately to stop his stomach from churning. His breathing is shallow and rapid, almost clammy, as the nausea flares again with the addition of someone shouting at a child in the hall upstairs. A police vehicle trundles past the window, sending a stab of blinding red and blue slicing straight through his eyelids into his pain receptors, and he's a little (very little, because he's past caring by this point in the agony) ashamed of the faint whimper of pain he muffles into his elbow, as the room spins again when he tries to open his eyes in the darkness.

If he was on the _Enterprise_, he'd be either in Sickbay under duress or in his cabin, with the lights on three percent (just enough to let him see his way to the bathroom, a soothing bluish glow along the walls and the path to his desk) and a hypospray of Bones's most powerful blood thinner in his veins, preparing to sleep off the worst of the migraine in about ten hours of uneventful rest. He's powered through headaches before aboard ship, but on the rare occasion that one of this magnitude hits, he is of little use to anyone; and while he has, more than once, stayed on the Bridge while under the influence of the good drugs due to chaos and a battle zone, he usually is down for the count.

Unfortunately, he's stuck in New York City during early winter in the Terran 1930s, earning fifty cents a day doing manual labor for twelve to fourteen hours and consuming only the bare minimum of food in order to give Spock the funds he needs to construct whatever miracle he can to get them out of this mess.

Hence, the proud captain of the _Enterprise_ reduced to such a pathetic state; lying on a lumpy mattress in a thin-walled tenement room, shivering under the solitary blanket and trying desperately not to vomit _on_ that one blanket, as they have no extra money for laundering purposes and he's afraid if he moves to fling it to the side the motion will make his head fall off and go rolling on the floor in some grotesque parody of Irving's Headless Horseman.

He's somewhere past the thinking-he's-going-to-die stage and is barreling merrily toward the _wanting_-to-die stage, when the door to the "flop" creaks, ever-so-quietly but loud enough that a strangled curse falls unbidden from his lips, muffled into his arm as he cringes, fingers clenching in the cheap sheets. He breathes open-mouthed, almost panting with the pain, into his pillow for a moment, praying that his stomach will settle without mishap.

A gentle hand grasps his shoulder, turns him on his back, and before he can moan a blind protest an icy damp cloth is laid over his eyes, immediately shutting out the remnants of the street lights outside and the slice of garish yellow that glows from the gap under their hallway door. The pain recedes ever so slightly from behind his eyes, the knife retreating further back in his head just a fraction, and he takes a slow, measured breath in hopes that the nausea will retreat with it.

It doesn't. His fingers clench at his side in the sheet as the threat becomes very, very imminent, and how embarrassing is this going to be, succumbing to the most mortifying of uncontrollable human weaknesses right in front of a species who is known for their control? Edith must have found Spock, told him Kirk had left the mission early and why. She had given him a look of compassion, a kiss on the cheek, and a couple of white pills that were supposedly an Old Earth pain reliever called _aspirin_; unfortunately, none of the three had even taken the edge off the agony.

The soft creak of bed-springs is a banshee-screech, reverberating into his skull from below, but his sound of protest is somewhat distorted by the hand he has clenched over his mouth, as he fights back another hot curl of nausea, trying desperately to count a breathing exercise in his mind. Not an easy task, when he feels his mind shredding into jagged pieces under the onslaught of grinding, unending pain.

"Have I said I'm going to court-martial Bones when I see him?" he manages to grind out, between shuddering breaths.

"You have, Jim."

Spock's voice is soft, so soft he can barely hear, and almost magically free of harsh phonemes, rolling gently and without jarring to his over-sensitized hearing. That in itself makes it welcome, and when it's accompanied by cold fingers (Spock really is freezing in this weather, and he hates that he can't do anything about it) at first hesitantly, but then more firmly applying pressure to his temples, he could just about faint or cry from sheer relief.

Their personal boundaries pretty much went out the window two nights ago, when it got so cold in the drafty room that he was literally afraid Spock might become ill, even die from hypothermia, and had insisted upon sharing the single blanket along with (fully-clothed, because even he had standards of awkwardness that didn't need crossed yet) body heat. Until that frigid night, they had managed somehow to keep their dignity in the tiny room, both being very private individuals in undesirable conditions. And since then, though that barrier has disintegrated little by little, the situation is less awkward than he would expect, and he is not about to refuse the expert aid of a touch-telepath in relieving what is legitimately a crippling pain.

Spock's more sensitive fingers are evidently capable of seeking out the worst areas of constricted blood vessels, knowing just where to apply pressure and for how long, better than any acupressurist Kirk's ever known, and in his Academy days he'd been known to date a few for their professional benefits more than anything else.

"You don't have to do this," he whispers, the words hammering loudly against his constricted eardrums, even though he suspects Spock will just ignore him. It's only polite to give the poor Vulcan an out if he's uncomfortable. He's fairly certain it's not in the First Officer's job description (because that would be all kinds of awkward, now that his pain-muddled mind thinks about it) to give his commanding officer a head massage in the event that the idiot gets himself worked up into a migraine while on an away mission out of reach of civilization and its advanced painkillers.

"I have no wish to see you in pain, Captain." Cold fingers suddenly apply consistent pressure to the points at the base of his skull, and something explodes behind his eyes. Spock pauses as he inhales sharply, but continues when he relaxes back against the pillow as the tension drains slowly from the area. "And in the absence of modern technology, to alleviate pain in more archaic but no less effective methods is only logical."

Bull. Spock could have just stuffed a towel under the door and let him sleep it off; and he is aware just from the freezing fingers now drawing the tension upward along his scalp that Spock is still miserably cold; this is hardly logical.

His smile is thin and strained, but genuine, and he knows Spock will pick up on his absolutely pathetic and sappy gratitude through touch-telepathy.

"Thanks are illogical, Captain."

"Yes, well, shut up and let me think it at you anyway, Commander."

"As you wish. _Sir_."

The title is almost an afterthought, flippant and just ever-so-slightly teasing. He recognizes it for the distraction it's meant to be, and relaxes further into the lumpy pillow. His nausea is nearly gone now, certainly at a manageable level, and the pain has receded along with Spock's fingers into a dull ache at the base of his skull, one which is low enough that his pain threshold will allow him to sleep in relative peace.

"R'mind me to leave you a recommendation in your file for performance above the call of duty when we get back," he murmurs, drowsy with the rush of relief that seeps through every cell in lieu of the blinding agony of before.

_If__ we get back_, he does not say, but he knows Spock picks up on the barely-controlled terror that lurks deep within at the faint possibility.

He doesn't have the strength to protest when his friend pulls the single blanket back up to his shoulders. Spock turns the wet cloth over so that the cool side once more covers his eyes from the light, as his faithful First Officer turns on their single flashlight, to work across the tiny room by that dim glow until he's asleep and unable to be set off by the overhead lighting.

Their mission goes on, and he is able to sleep at last knowing that, if Spock has anything to say about it, they will succeed.

He's still going to murder Bones when he sees the man, however.

_Nobody_ should be forced to wear this horrible atrocity of red plaid for longer than a week, thank you very much.


	63. Selective Communication Skills

**Title**: Selective Communication Skills  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, sleeping-on-Spock's-couch!McCoy  
**Rating**: Dude, so a fluffy K  
**Word Count**: 843  
**Summary**: Jim Kirk is not a happy man when both of his XOs disappear just before he decides to do a routine surprise inspection of Science and Medical.  
**AN**: Written as a hurried, unbeta-ed, and terribly sloppy little gift fic for **writer_klmeri**, who is both a good and overworked LJ friend, and a spectacular cheerleader for my sporadic ST muse. *sends hugs*

* * *

After two hours of surprise departmental inspections (a necessary part of every captain's shipboard duties, though he for one hates to see crewmen panic at the sight of their captain), during which he found neither of his Science department heads at their stations or indeed anywhere on the premises, it is with some irritation that Captain James T. Kirk leaves the turbolift on Deck Five, intent upon finding out why Scotty is apparently the only XO aboard who actually works his designated shifts in his designated location.

Triggered by the vibration of Kirk's fateful bootsteps, Spock's door opens of its own accord before him, and he strides in with purpose, intent upon finding out why his second-in-command has apparently decided to take the afternoon off when the rest of the crew is still performing their usual duties. His Chief Medical Officer, Kirk will deal with later; one truant subordinate, especially a Vulcan one with Vulcan diplomatic skills, is quite enough to handle at the moment.

Fortunately, both objects of his search are within the cabin, much to his surprise. Spock glances up from his desk, immediately perceives his captain's annoyance, and…promptly goes back to his work.

He clears his throat pointedly, but receives little reaction, finally resorting to a curt, "May I ask what benefit there is in a surprise departmental inspection, Mr. Spock, when said department's on-duty officer is not present for feedback?"

"We do utilize a quite efficient intra-network memorandum system for such occasions, sir."

"You did _not_ just say that to me."

An eyebrow slides slightly upward, the _why-must-I-live-amongst-idiots_ one, and Spock favors him and his irritation with a look of condescending tolerance.

"Perhaps if you were to summon said departments' on-duty officers upon discovering their absence, Captain, instead of becoming increasingly frustrated by their non-appearance in answer to your non-summons, you would have less difficulty in completing inspection tours," his unperturbed First ventures mildly.

"I shouldn't have to _summon_ you in the first place! And –"

"_Captain_." The word is quiet, but suddenly intense, and accompanied by a brief gesture toward the cabin's sitting alcove. Kirk waves his hands in a helplessly aggrieved gesture, and he would swear Spock almost rolls his eyes. "Dr. McCoy has been far overworked during the events of the past two Terran lunar cycles, as you are well aware, sir."

His incredulity is evident in his voice, so much so that Spock ignores him and simply returns to his work, stylus skritching softly on the PADD before him. "So, what…you invited him to a – a _sleepover_ in the First Officer's cabin? Really, Spock?"

The look he receives over the top of the PADD could disintegrate duranium. "Sir, I am hardly to blame if a member of the command staff becomes so exhausted in his duties that he falls asleep in my company, much less in my cabin while discussing ship's business. As you yourself have done on occasion, sir."

He splutters for a second, before dragging both hands down his face in a scrubbing gesture of resignation.

Silence, broken only by the staccato tapping of Spock's calmly fingers typing out the latest statistics for his next report.

And then a sort of muffled snort as their sleeping CMO shuffles in his sleep, flumping onto his other side on Spock's hard couch with one blue-clad arm sprawled dramatically over his head.

Finally, broken down by the sheer force of Adorable, the captain shakes his head, and hides a smile while Spock is engaged in sending a fuel consumption inquiry to Engineering.

"You're expecting me to believe it's totally logical to let a man sleep on the job just because he's _tired_, Commander?"

"When tired enough to fall asleep mid-sentence in the middle of a medical evaluation of his departmental heads? Yes, Captain."

"Mm-hm. And I suppose it's equally logical to drop the temperature in here to a human tolerance level so he doesn't wake up because of the heat?"

"It is not Vulcan to intentionally cause a life-form any type of discomfort, Captain."

"Of course, Mr. Spock, of course." Kirk nods in solemn agreement. "And it is also a Vulcan habit, I take it, to tuck a _blanket_ around a subordinate who falls asleep on his commanding officer's couch during what may or may not have been a well-laid plot to get our current biggest medical concern off his feet for a few hours."

Spock studies his reports with a ferocious intensity.

He rolls his eyes unseen and heads toward the door, tossing over his shoulder, "Well, I salute your tactical genius, Commander."

"Thank you, Captain."

"Your…selective communication skills, however, are a different matter."

"I shall endeavor to increase efficiency in the future, sir."

"You do that. Oh, and Spock?"

"Sir?"

"You are aware that most humans have the unfortunate habit of _drooling_ when they are deep within REM sleep?"

He takes a mean pleasure in the look of dismay that crosses Spock's otherwise expressionless face, and waits until the door shuts behind him to laugh his head off all the way down the corridor.


	64. Step by Step

**Title**: Step by Step  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
**Genre**: H/C, fluff, gen  
**Rating**: K  
**Word Count**: 3378  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: Not a blessed thing.  
**Summary**: Even sick as a dog, Jim Kirk is a very lucky man. _You don't just luck into things as much as you would like to think you do. You build step by step, whether it is friendships or opportunities_. _- Barbara Bush_  
**A/N**: Fills one of my **st_20_fics** table prompts, "Most admirals don't have a lick of sense, anyway." (though most of the fics on that table are written in a third-person crewman's POV, this is not, that's just how it worked out). Also answers a writing prompt given to me by **writer_klmeri**: _The first time Kirk tried plomeek soup - and he didn't like it. Not that that's the proper thing to say to a Vulcan when that Vulcan is possibly, minutely, on the verge of looking concerned Jim might actually be dying. Note to self, Kirk. Talk to Doctor McCoy about his penchant for exaggeration._ Here you go, m'friend. :)

* * *

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, youngest captain in all of Starfleet, and by far the most successful due to hard work, diplomacy, and innovative thinking (well…that plus the fact that he is the only captain in the 'Fleet who has a Vulcan to watch his back), does not believe in Luck.

It is astronomical misfortune, and not bad luck, which means he happens to catch the one rare 'flu strain out of two hundred known variations in the galaxy, which is highly resistant to the standard all-inclusive yearly vaccine for 'Fleet personnel. Dr. McCoy, to make matters worse, is more amused than anything else by his complaints in the first twenty-four hours, and tells him he is a doctor, not a miracle worker, and that the captain needs to just take it easy and stop comm-ing Sickbay every hour for another anti-nausea and energy hypo because the stuff can become addictive in those quantities.

It is Admiral Cartwright's pigheadedness, and not bad luck, which means that he unfortunately cannot take himself off duty for the typical five days necessary for this incurable strain of 'flu to run its course. They are running under a partial blackout along the very edge of the Neutral Zone, skirting the Romulan and Klingon territorial intersection closer and closer every moment they remain on their present course. The mission, also unfortunately, cannot be delayed; a Priority One distress call, namely an emergency supply run to a satellite colony which experienced a meteor shower that knocked out all their power sources and matter replicators. Under such diplomatically volatile conditions as their current location, the captain is not to leave the Bridge unless he is in serious danger of death or incapacitation; obviously, the Admiral Cartwright believes that simply _feeling sick_ does not qualify. (Kirk rather thinks he is fast approaching the dying stage, or at least the stage where he wants to die, but that is not apparently good enough for the unsympathetic-powers-that-be.)

It is loyalty, and not bad luck, which means his First Officer from his seat at the Science station remotely changes the volume settings on the command chair, and thereby startles him out of the first actual sleep he's had in two days by sending him a not-really-all-that-subtle message that blasts a notification chirp loud enough to perforate his eardrums in the middle of an impromptu nap on the Bridge.

It is his utter weariness, and not good luck, that means his oh-so-innocent-looking First gets off with nothing more than a dirty look and a return text message, asking if Spock wants to spend the remainder of their five-year mission demoted to gamma shift in Waste Recycling and Processing.

And then it is total, blatant disregard for regulation, and not any kind of luck, which means that halfway through the third day in which he spends his designated shift white-knuckling his armrests, trying to mask coughing fits, and concentrating upon not falling over the moment his will-power weakens, he is all but hauled out of said chair by his First Officer and forcibly escorted to the turbolift.

Spock meets his protests (pretty feeble ones at this point, if he can admit that to himself) with a long-suffering shake of the head and a subtle hand to balance as the captain lists dangerously to one side.

"Mr. Sulu is more than capable of overseeing the remaining twelve hours of our journey through this sector of the Neutral Zone, Captain, after which time the regulations change to permit you off-Bridge duty. Do not touch _anything_, Lieutenant," he adds dryly, as the young pilot grins and (after casting a dubious look downward, as if to evaluate the germ content of his prospective seat) sits in the center chair. "And notify me if there is any change to sensors, however minute."

"Aye, sir."

"Cartwright's going to have kittens, Spock," he moans, leaning more heavily than he would like on the wall of the lift, which is actually quite soothingly cool against his head. He stifles another hoarse cough into his sleeve, and closes his eyes.

Spock turns the directional handle, which closes the door with a pneumatic thump of finality, and does not bother to engage in the usual banter about illogical human idioms. "I believe the admiral, as Dr. McCoy phrased it this morning in his succinct summary of my duties for the day, will _get over it_, Captain. You are unwell, sir."

"Your observation skills are, as always…impeccable, Commander." He gets sarcastic when he's sick, and that's really not fair to throw at a Vulcan who has been ridiculously patient with him already. "Sorry," he sighs, opening his eyes again only to promptly slam them shut when the turbolift walls tilt alarmingly back at him.

"Apologies are unnecessary, sir."

"You're far too kind, Mr. Spock. But if Cartwright gets his back up over this, make sure you come and get me –"

"I shall do nothing of the kind, Captain. Your health is of more importance than the admiral's overblown sense of self-importance and his belief that distant bureaucracy is the most efficient way to run a starship."

His head is spinning from the fever, but he's still able to crack open hazy eyes in surprise, feeling a small grin ease the tightness around his jawline. "I take it that this scientific and totally unbiased evaluation is strictly off-the-record, Mr. Spock?"

The Vulcan raises an eyebrow with an air of total indifference. "As you wish, sir. However, my report to Admiral Cartwright's superiors and the Diplomatic Relations department at Starfleet Headquarters will certainly indicate my assessment."

The lift pings cheerfully to indicate their arrival, and his laugh sounds more like a sob of utter exhaustion under the sound of the doors opening. "If you ignite a diplomatic mudslinging battle over me having the _flu_, Commander…"

"I, Captain?" Spock's innocent tone is totally void of guile, as if he simply cannot _imagine_ where Kirk got that idea.

His fevered brain can't quite place assignation of blame for who exactly turned Christopher Pike's shy, mild-mannered Science Officer into this awesomely frightening Vulcan commander who has absolutely no qualms about utilizing his diplomatic immunity and connections in Starfleet to further their own ends, especially where his captain is concerned.

The knowledge sends a flash of warmth spreading through him from his heart outward, and it's only when he blinks open his eyes (no idea when they closed, actually, which isn't really a good thing) to see Spock's concerned face inches from his and a glimmering expanse of duranium just behind, that he realizes maybe that wasn't all affection warming his core, and he probably should sit down before he embarrasses himself by passing out in the middle of Deck Five.

Except that he's already sitting down, apparently, because that yawing expanse of silver behind Spock is the lower half of a wall.

"Captain, are you all right?"

He nods mechanically, still trying to figure out when the wall became the floor and vice-versa. The heat has centered in his head now, it feels like, and the hand he raises to rub at his eyes is shaking almost violently.

"You became disoriented and nearly collapsed, sir, most likely due to the fever and exhaustion," Spock explains in answer to his unspoken question, and the silent connection goes both ways because he can read Spock's _I-am-worried-about-you-stubborn-illogical-human_ in the tiny furrow between his eyebrows. "Perhaps I should escort you to Sickbay rather than your cabin –"

"No," he manages to grit out, struggling to his feet with the aid of the solid wall and less solid but more helpful hand from his patient First. "I'm fine, Spock…fine." Brushing futilely at his now-rumpled uniform, he shakes his head (bad idea, it feels like his brain is in danger of being pumped out his ears) and takes a step down the corridor.

An even worse idea, apparently, because it's just his luck (ha, Luck) that his body decides to make the decision for him; evidently not sleeping for three nights running and forgetting to stay hydrated trump stubborn determination. He unfortunately is not given an opt-out for the indignity of fainting into the arms of his longsuffering First Officer.

Lady Luck hates him, obviously.

* * *

He wakes up, predictably, to a three-quarters-human, one-quarter-Vulcan catfight going on over his head.

"…old me to get him off the Bridge, Doctor. I did indeed, 'get him off the Bridge.'"

"That meant bring him to Sickbay, you idiot! Do I look like I do house calls?!"

"Your questionable bedside manner suggests you are not even adept at _office_ calls, Doctor."

"If he can't start stomaching food and water I'm gonna need equipment down here, and we haven't got a portable multi-intravenous unit because _someone_ didn't sign off on my requisition forms the last time I submitted 'em for one!"

"That would be because you have already reached your monthly requisition limit, Doctor. For the next _three_ months, actually."

It could be the fever, or it could be that he's so bone-tired he can barely move, but it takes longer than he was expecting to blink back into the land of refereeing-between-two-equally-brilliant-and-annoy ing-department-heads.

"So tell one of your precious Science lieutenants they can darn well wait another coupla weeks for a new microscope or something!"

"I do not show favoritism among my subordinates, Doctor, as that is both against Starfleet regulation and, in addition, quite illogical. Also, were I to for some undisclosed reason show favoritism, Doctor, it would certainly not be toward _you_."

_Ooh, Vulcan burn._ He can't help but snicker, although both his amusement and Bones's spluttering are somewhat drowned out the next moment by an awful hacking cough that suddenly chokes out everything else, including his ability to breathe.

Hands on his arms, an arm behind his back, propping him up into a nearly-sitting position to clear his airway.

"Aw, come on, Jim! Don't make me haul an oxygen kit up here!"

He manages to get a hand up to halt the tirade of medical concern/bullying which is the most comforting thing he could hear at moments like this, and a minute later he can breathe again. His head feels oddly heavy, everything muffled through a fog, but he is awake and at least mostly aware of his surroundings.

Said surroundings being his two watchdogs picking up right where they left off without a pause for breath, now that they are assured he isn't going to choke to death in front of them.

"If he is having this much difficulty breathing, after only three days of this illness, Doctor –"

"If you'd got him down to Sickbay like I _asked_ you to, he'd'a been on oxygen and a vitamin drip this whole time!"

"Doctor, I was unable to even remove him from the Bridge until I was able to negotiate Mr. Scott's assistance in…making unexpected upgrades to our communications systems."

"Do what now?"

"We needed to be unable to receive any further transmissions from Admiral Cartwright for the next twelve hours. That was only accomplished this morning, and when I received confirmation that the upgrades were well underway and Starfleet notified of our…technological difficulties, I then proceeded to follow your instructions."

His head jerks up at that, ship-business for a moment driving back the fog of illness. "Wait, wait…are you saying you and Scotty _sabotaged_ the comms systems so that Cartwright won't know I'm not up there?"

Spock looks down at him, eyebrows raised innocently. "I said nothing of the kind, sir. You are, undoubtedly, suffering from mild disorientation due to an elevated internal temperature. I would suggest you not concern yourself further with pondering potentially erroneous interpretations of our conversational variances."

He squints upward at the solemn features of his First Officer, frowning, because Spock just used more multi-syllabic words than are probably in the ship's whole entire language banks and there's just no way his foggy brain is going to follow that right now, thank you. And so, he only rolls his eyes, slouching down against the pillows McCoy is still fussily piling behind his back.

"Whatever," he mutters, swatting away a wandering hand that ignores his irritation, checking his pulse in the old-fashioned way.

"Don't you _whatever_ me, Jim-boy."

"Shut up, Bones. And stop poking me! I'm sick, not dying."

Not unsurprisingly, his personal torturer-slash-chief medical officer ignores him, and pokes a bony finger into his blanket-covered chest.

"You are way beyond just sick now, Jim, because you've let this snowball for the last three days by not taking care of yourself! Now you're not gettin' rid of me or Spock until you've got something in your stomach and I'm satisfied you're not gonna fry your own brain without medical supervision tonight!"

He scowls, though the effect is considerably lessened by the enormous sneeze that works its way violently out of his lungs, probably taking bits of them with it. McCoy jumps backward, startled, and he grins into the paper tissue Spock silently hands him. The tissue is then followed by three entire boxes of the same, stacked neatly on the low shelf behind the bed.

He's about to make some comment about it being overkill, when another sneeze fairly rockets out of his lungs, jerking his head back with enough force that it actually hurts; and he had a headache the size of a small planetoid already.

His moan of pain (and the accompanying Klingon swearing) seem to at least dissipate the bickering that had been his wakeup call, and in the next five minutes it's almost creepy (okay, it's _really_ creepy) how well McCoy and Spock have him situated upright with a few books at his elbow, music cued up on his bedside monitor, all data-padds containing official work very much out of reach, and an honest-to-gods bowl of soup sitting on an appropriated Sickbay tray-table across his bed.

The bowl steams cheerfully up at him, spoon twinkling invitingly at four-o-clock and an embarrassingly tall pile of paper napkins at nine.

He eyes it for a second with well-founded skepticism, and then gives the yellowish, milky liquid a curious stir.

"Mr. Spock is learning about human customs when we suffer unfortunate illnesses, Captain," McCoy's voice drawls from slightly behind him, and the hint of mischief in the tone is a warning all its own.

Now suspicious, he cranes his neck to look, and is met with a grin over the top of a cocktail shaker. Blue eyes twinkle at him as McCoy gives the electrolyte/fruit juice/protein powder mixture an expert shake.

"So of course, I instructed him that when suffering from non-life-threatening illnesses, most humans revert back to instinctual basics that can stem from childhood; one of those being that of comfort foods. Mr. Spock ventured to agree with me, citing instances from his own childhood, and oddly enough both our cultures agree on the usual food of choice."

"Soup," he answers cautiously, venturing a glance at his silent First, who is now finding objects on the desk to be of great interest.

"Soup, Jim. Whatever-the-heck plomeek actually is, I hope it tastes like chicken noodle because that's what you're getting. Now eat up like a good little boy, so he didn't go to all that trouble for nothing."

Spock fires a withering look over his captain's head. "Doctor, really."

"I'm just sayin'."

"You do indeed, say a great many things, Doctor. In fact, one might go so far as to – Captain, are you quite all right?"

Through a heroic effort which saps nearly all his remaining energy, he manages to smile up at his First's raised eyebrow. "Quite all right, Mr. Spock," he rasps, thankful that the congestion will mask any aberrations in his voice. "Thank you," he adds in a not-quite squeak, as he is totally unable to fabricate a more elaborate statement of gratitude.

Behind him, he hears a muffled snort, and then the doctor moves around him, giving the drink canister one last shake. "Spock, would you get us a coupla wet towels from the bathroom? Nothing like the old-fashioned methods to get a fever down."

The Vulcan nods solemnly, and vanishes into the adjoining bathroom.

"Alrighty then…Jim?"

He drops the spoon with a wet plop, splashing yellowish droplets all over the tray. "Holy mother of…Bones, give me that!" He snatches the drink mixture and chugs several ounces in one swallow, hoping the slightly bitter taste of vitamins and juice mix will mask the plomeek.

"Not a fan, then?"

"I can see why he threw it at the wall when Christine tried to take it to him last year…"

McCoy's laughter is valiantly stifled in his sleeve. "It can't be that bad, Jim. Vulcan food is known for being pretty bland to other species."

He glares watery-eyed up at his CMO, sinuses still burning. Hey, at least he can breathe now, which is actually a small favor. "You put him up to this."

"So to speak," the doctor admits cheerfully.

"I will _kill_ you in your sleep. As soon as I can stand up without _throwing_ up."

"You do that. In the meantime, you better choke some of that down before Spock gets back, or you're gonna hurt his non-existent feelings."

The whimper which escapes is not precisely his proudest moment, but after three days of being sicker than he can ever remember being, and now this on top of it all…he rather thinks he's entitled. However, in the thirty seconds before Spock returns, he manages to choke down two-thirds of the bowl and only stops because he's totally run out of the protein juice chaser and there is no way in the seven hells he's taking another spoonful of that stuff without it.

Besides, he's getting oddly sleepy again.

Spock takes a look at the mostly-empty bowl and then looks ridiculously pleased with himself, so much so that it's actually pretty adorable and maybe it was worth having several of his taste receptors literally _burnt out of his head_ for all of eternity.

"I had not anticipated the mild tranquilizing effects taking place that rapidly, I must admit," he hears Spock say in a tone of mystification, as his eyes start to close lazily.

"…Uhm. About that."

"About that, Doctor?"

A snort of laughter. "Spock, there's not a human alive that can really stomach that stuff…didn't your mother ever tell you it's not compatible with human taste receptors?"

A very startled pause.

"So…_I_ drugged his _drink_, because I thought there's no way in the scientific world he was gonna manage to choke that stuff down, not even for you." Fondness tinges the words, as McCoy sighs. "Shows what I know."

"You are saying, Doctor…"

"That because he didn't want to hurt your feelings, he basically got a double whammy with the sleeping pills? Pretty much. So it's your fault, y'see."

"Your logic is completely non-existent, Doctor. Your withholding of medical knowledge is to blame."

"Yeah, whatever, Spock."

"A most impressively quick-witted response, Doctor. I salute your mental acuity."

Oh, for pity's sake. He cracks open one eye, glares blearily at both of them, and points a finger in the vague direction of the door, before his hand swan-dives floppily back onto the blanket. "You ladies take it outside, would you? Tryin' t'sleep, here."

It is not an order, indeed barely has the force behind it to make it a request, and that's bad for his captainal dignity – but apparently even drugged and sick and trying to not _be_ sick due to the evil-soup-from-hell he's still _got it_, because there is a muttered apology (Bones, because Spock wouldn't call him a moron) and a gentle tug to replace the blanket over his exposed arm (Spock, because even McCoy's hands aren't that cold).

He smiles to himself as they totally disobey orders and don't leave, instead just retreating to his working area. The dull murmur of scientific discussion is as recognizable and familiar as their bickering, and he can tell he will be asleep in seconds in the knowledge that all is well and in control aboard his ship.

It's fortunate, he thinks fuzzily, just before dreams usher him away, that Fate decided to present one mostly-deserving captain with two so trustworthy subordinates-and-friends.

Oh, who is he kidding.

He's a very Lucky man, and he knows it.


End file.
